


Dream a Little Dream

by beetle



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Comics), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amnesia, Bad Advices, Canonical Character Death, Cotati, Dramora - Freeform, Dream Sex, Earth-616, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Friendship, Good Advices, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kree (Marvel), Kree Pacifist, Life is not the beginning, M/M, Mention of major character death, Past Rape/Non-con, Priests of Pama, Reincarnation, Relationship Advice, Rhomann Dey is very sleepy, Rocket really needs that guy's prosthetic (no--really!), Ronan says a lot of swears, StarAccuser, Sun-Prince the Messenger Lad, Tabula Rasa, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Temple, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, Vietnam, Xandarians, Yondu and Kraglin are amused, cloning, death is not the end, tagging is fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: The scavengers found the mi-chang boy wandering naked through the deeps of the jungle, among the long-abandoned ruins of a Thiền temple of which the faces of all the Buddhas and bodhisattvas had been defaced or destroyed . . . the scavengers were, after a mere few hours, certain the boy could replicate, but not understand language at all, as a concept or a practice. The only thing for it was to take him to the priests at the Nameless Temple and let them sort the boy out.





	1. Prologue: The Lotus-Eyed Ox-Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sintero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/gifts), [Staubengel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Staubengel/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Earth-616 AU, post-GoTG film. Set post-film by several months, after the opening credits (this prologue chapter) roll.
> 
> For WrithingBeneathYou (Sintero) and Staubengel for their examples of truly transcendent StarAccuser, for their friendship, and for their _massive_ amounts of support and cheerleading. Thanks, weirdos.

 

* * *

**PROLOGUE: The Lotus-Eyed Ox-Boy**

 

* * *

 

 

The scavengers found the _mi-chang,_ or white person, wandering naked through the deeps of the jungle, among the long-abandoned ruins of a _Thi_ _ề_ _n_ temple of which the faces of all the Buddhas and bodhisattvas had been defaced or destroyed.

 

The scavengers came to call him _c_ _ậ_ _u b_ _é_ , or little boy, despite the fact that this “little boy” was more than a third again their heights, and clearly an adult in body, if not in mind. His frame was broad and sturdy, despite the fact that it was clearly starved and undernourished. His pale-pink skin was tanned in places and burned almost coral in others from exposure. His bones and muscles stood out in sharp, angry relief even in moments of rest and his unshod feet were filthy, but not bleeding, as the average Westerner’s would have been after who knew how long in the deeps.

 

The boy’s face was predominated by strong, cruel angles and sensual features: a long, thin nose made for sneering down from his prodigious height; a mouth that seemed set in an eternal pout or perhaps the beginnings of a sneer; high, striking cheekbones; and a set, resolute jaw. But in spite of the inherent strength and stubbornness implied by those strange-even-for-a- _mi-chang_ features, that assessment of personality was entirely belied by the innocent, strangely vacant, lotus-colored eyes, round and wide, that stared uncomprehendingly from that severe, uncompromising face with its frame of short, coarse, spiky black hair.

 

The boy either would not or _could not_ understand any of the local dialects, or the pidgin English and French almost everyone seemed to know. Though he could and did imitate whatever sounds caught his fickle-fey attention, including crickets chirping, bird-song, the near-inaudible sonar of bats and the chittering complaints of rodents in the underbrush. And, as his mouth learned to reproduce the complex sounds of language, the words, phrases, and songs the scavengers uttered.

 

The scavengers were, after a mere few hours, certain the boy could replicate, but not understand language _at all,_ as a concept or a practice . . . his mimicry of their speech aside.

 

#

 

It was two days’ travel from where they found boy, whom they also began to call _bò_ , which meant _ox_ , for a few hours (though one of the more outspoken and poetic of the scavengers insisted on calling him _sen m_ _ắt_ , or lotus-eyed, which lead to a good-natured argument around the blank, trusting ox-boy, that resulted in a new, almost fond moniker: _bò sen m_ _ắt_ , or lotus-eyed ox), to the _Đ_ _ền N_ _ếu kh_ _ông c_ _ó m_ _ột danh_. . . Temple-Without-a-Name.

 

In that two days, the boy made many noises, none of which were attempts at communication . . . merely grunts of exertion, gasps of wonder, or the reproduction of whatever he'd heard, the former being few and far between, the latter two seemingly endless. Especially at night, when the boy peered, gape-mouthed and weeping, up through the camo-canopy through which the starry sky peeked.

 

More than once, the scavengers observed the ox-boy wiping curiously at his wet cheeks and making soft, self-consoling sounds that were barely audible over the sounds of the bugs and bats and scavengers of the non-human variety.

 

#

 

Upon delivering the boy to the Nameless Temple, the scavengers said their tentative, awkward good-byes and left without ceremony or—much—sentiment.

 

The lotus-eyed ox-boy merely blinked at them, his lower lip pooched out as if he was about to cry. But the scavengers knew to a man, after fifty hours spent in the company of this ox-boy, that he understood nothing of partings, or the likelihood that they would never meet again this side of the afterlife.

 

Clad, now, in two spare, no-color, button-down shirts, the long sleeves of which were wrapped around his waist to preserve the modesty he didn’t have, the ox-boy watched his seven deliverers depart from the Nameless Temple with his uncomprehending purple eyes—the poetic scavenger turned to wave at the boy, his _own_ lower lip pooched out and quivering . . . for he, too, often peered up at the stars with tears in his eyes and an aching, endless, and melancholy wonder in his heart—and was flanked by two small, wiry men. The taller of the two was approaching middle-aged, with ocher-colored skin and mild, muddy-brown eyes. The shorter and older was darker than the eyes of his companion, with skin the color of good, nourishing soil and eyes so inscrutable and dark, they were as a vast and starless night. Both men had shaven heads. Their robes were not the saffron and yellow, or black and grey of _Thi_ _ề_ _n_ monks. For they were not of that faith or philosophy, though they found it admirable, if a bit naive.

 

When the seven scavengers had disappeared into the jungle once more, the older man to the ox-boy’s left huffed, and smiled up and up at his large new charge.

 

“Well,” he said, hands clasped before him, resting on his green and tan robes. The fellow on the ox-boy’s right merely hurried to shut the wooden gates, which were all that stood between the temple’s front yard and the few cleared yards of space between the fence and the forest, then bowed to his superior and backed away for several feet, before turning and hurrying back into the temple and his duties. “You are _most_ unexpected, _bò sen m_ _ắt_. But that does _not_ mean you are unwelcome here.”

 

The ox-boy, still staring at the closed wooden gates with a bereft and confused expression, finally turned his lotus-eyed gaze to the small, smiling man in the earthen robes. That smile widened, and the man took the ox-boy’s elbow and with a gentle tug, lead him toward the temple. He noted the way the boy gaped at the simple, austere architecture and extensive gardens surrounding it. A soft sound escaped that full, often-gaping mouth, both awed and a little frightened.

 

“Do not worry, _bò_ , for though life here is often difficult and spare, you will find no dearth of hospitality under this roof. It is in the nature of the [Priests of Pama](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Priests_of_Pama_\(Earth-616\)) to give succor, aid, and guidance to the lost and helpless, though they be at the last of their lives’ energies. For there is no higher calling than to live and die in the service of others.”

 

The ox-boy blinked down from his intimidating height at the small priest, and his brows drew together, his lotus-eyes flickering with something that might have been effort.

 

Finally, he closed his gaping mouth, then opened it again, exhaling a soft, tentative breath, on the back of which was a low, stuttered: “P-Puh-MAH?”

 

“Yes,” the priest said sanguinely as they climbed the shallow temple steps, himself almost gliding as his charge stumbled at the precise, unfamiliar sort of incline. At the top of the staircase, however, the ox-boy was once more gaping up at the building, itself. Namely the façade-wide entryway, in which were pits of earth ringed with mossy stone, that contained many plants and trees which looked absolutely nothing like any of the local flora. Nor anything like the un-local flora.

 

Nor like _any_ flora to be found elsewhere on Terra.

 

“I am Brother An,” the priest said mildly, kindly. _So_ kindly that after two days of the blunt, plainspoken scavengers, the ox-boy cast a confused look on the cleric, who chuckled. “I am what might be called a liaison between our Order and the outside world. Mostly because of my talkative nature. And because if there’s one thing us ol’ Akron boys know, it’s how to run our mouths.”

 

The ox-boy blinked at Brother An and opened his mouth, his brow furrowing.

 

“Eh,” the lotus-eyed _mi-chang_ coughed out, as if punched, then frowned deeper, almost thunderously. “Eh-eh-eh . . . _âm đ_ _ạo_?”

 

Slight up-lilt in voice that suggested a question. Brother An’s dark, dark eyes widened in his dark, dark face and he blinked. Then he started laughing, as loud and raucous as the scavengers who’d found the ox-boy ever had, perfect white teeth flashing, head tipped back.

 

“Well!” he blurted again, wiping his eyes as the ox-boy stared at him in mute curiosity. “Well, it’s been nearly two decades since anyone’s called me a _pussy_ in any language! Hoo!”

 

The small man’s guffaws wound down into chuckles and then sporadic giggles as he led his wide-eyed charge through corridors and halls, past rooms the size of auditoriums and cells the size of walk-in closets. Some of these rooms were tenanted, but most were not. The sounds of chanting could be heard from the tenanted rooms all throughout the temple as an omnipresent undertone. It thrummed through the ox-boy’s dense, heavy bones and teeth. He frowned, tilting his head as if to consider the sound as chatty Brother An confided that _Dwight Herbert Merriweather_ was the name his Mama gave him, and that before joining the Priests of Pama, he’d been a used-car salesman in Roselle, New Jersey, until he'd “lost” his family and his modest fortune. He’d then gone on a quest for spiritual meaning which led, ultimately, to the Temple-Without-a-Name, where he'd been ever since.

 

It was this one-sided conversation that took them to the heart of the temple.

 

The silent ox-boy followed obediently, goggling at any- and everything they came across as if for the first time, a thing which Brother An noted—there was, at this stage of his varied life, little that the talkative man actually _missed_ —but didn’t stop to address. Then, finally, they turned down a narrow corridor with no doors set in the opposing walls, but one equally narrow door set at the end, tall and made of imposingly-engraved, slowly oxidizing metal.

 

“I have a feeling,” Brother An said, putting a friendly hand on the ox-boy’s shoulder for a moment and squeezing. “That _she’ll_ want to see a curiosity such as the _bò sen m_ _ắt_ right away.”

 

The ox-boy gave no reply other a bewildered blink and an uncertain smile that was clearly an imitation of Brother An’s. He glanced at the dark, work-roughened hand on his shoulder—the scavengers had not touched him even once, using pantomime and slow, loud orders to communicate their desires and intent—before meeting the priest’s gaze again and widening his uncertain smile into a toothy grin like he’d seen the scavengers give each other before laughing at something amusing that was said.

 

Brother An was the one to blink, this time, upon seeing his charge’s basalt-colored teeth.

 

“Yes,” he murmured, nodding to himself as they stopped at the tall, rusting door. He raised his hand to knock. “She’ll want to see you ASAP.”

 

So saying, Brother An rapped the door briskly, thrice times three: three short, three long, three short.

 

“The only Morse Code I remember from my Navy days,” he said almost apologetically. “It’s our super-secret _Important Knock_. What can I say? It’s better than shave-and-a-hair-cut. Even if she’s meditating, she’ll know that her attention is required urgently.”

 

And even as Brother An finished speaking, the tall door, swung slowly open, appearing to be as heavy as it was narrow.

 

But the woman who opened it seemed to have no trouble doing so. And little wonder: for her body was as dense and solid as an ancient oak . . . hard, yet not so inflexible, and swaddled in earthen robes no different from Brother An’s, but for a thong worn around her neck, with a small wooden talisman. Her head was as hairless as a stone from a running river, evenly-ovoid and slightly elongated. Her eyes—long and almond-shaped, and a faded lilac made more so by the cobalt of her strong-featured, regal face—widened as she met the ox-boy’s open, wondering ones from a height that differed in mere centimeters (in the ox-boy’s favor).

 

Her lips parted slightly, the only other sign of surprise that showed in her stoic expression. Her gaze flicked briefly to Brother An.

 

“He was brought here by scavengers, _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_. They said they found him wandering the forest two days ago. They call him _bò sen m_ _ắt_ ,” the priest answered her silent question with moderate amusement. “He doesn’t seem to understand anything said to him in any language. And I’ve bounced back and forth from five local dialects, to English, Spanish, a smattering of French, and even a little Klingon. No luck, so far.”

 

The _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ frowned and the ox-boy mirrored her before smiling the way Brother An had. Her lips parted slightly wider at the sight of his dark, square teeth—no squarer and darker than her own.

 

“Leave us, An,” she commanded in a voice that, while low and smooth, crackled with tension and impatience. Her gaze was bright and intent on the suddenly fidgeting ox-boy’s unsure face.

 

Brother An’s brows quirked, then he bowed slightly. After squeezing the ox-boy’s shoulder once again, and murmuring a wry: “ _Qapla’!_ ” he turned on his heel and strode off back down the narrow corridor, whistling jauntily.

 

The ox-boy watched him go, frowning, before the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn’s_ terse, quiet voice recalled his attention to the doorway.

 

At her words, he blinked and frowned. They felt familiar—the first thing that had in the ox-boy’s limited and brief experience—in a way nothing in his short life ever had. In fact, _familiarity itself_ was an alien sensation wholly unknown to the ox-boy.

 

Familiar or not, however, the _hướng dẫn’s_ words did not pierce the wall of his incomprehension, as several further tries proved. Until, sighing wearily, the _hướng dẫn_ reached up to pinch the bridge of her aquiline nose and close her eyes. The lines bracketing those faded eyes and her spare, down-turned mouth were riven deep from responsibility and worry, if not from time and tide.

 

“I do not suppose you _could_  tell me how you arrived here, in such a state, even if you _would_ ,” she finally said in a local dialect that Brother An _hadn’t_ tried, but one which the poetic scavenger had spoken frequently and with great passion. Most notably the second night, as one of the other scavengers, a tall, silent, muscular young man—though not as tall, silent, or muscular as the ox-boy—had pinned him against a large, broken boulder while the other scavengers had slept off an evening of drinking and dice. The poetic scavenger had grunted and groaned and babbled as the younger man noiselessly continued pinning him and slamming his slighter body against the boulder.

 

Around the time the ox-boy—who’d learned enough from the scavengers to know to go _away_ from where everyone slept to relieve himself, and had only stumbled across the curiously engaged pair because his bladder had been full—had lost interest in the baffling proceedings, he’d also finished emptying himself. He shook off—another lesson taught by the scavengers, as well as lifting the shirts tied around his waist _before_ he urinated—and ambled silently back to camp to lay down, where he continued staring up at the star-speckled sky with its framework of branches and canopy. And he stared and stared into eternity, thinking nothing at all and occasionally touching his wet cheeks with silent awe.

 

But the ox-boy was—when his fickle attention urged him to be—a natural mimic. And now, so directly addressed in the language he was most used to hearing, said the phrase that the poetic scavenger had hissed back at his peer so urgently, causing the pinning and slamming, as well as the grunting and groaning, to increase:

 

“Khó hơn! Đặt lưng của bạn vào nó! Nhanh hơn!” _Harder! Put your back into it! Faster!_

 

And then he proceeded to replicate the poet’s grunts and groans, hisses and swears exactly . . . until the _hướng dẫn’s_ pale eyes grew wide and vaguely horrified.

 

Then she was pinching the bridge of her aristocratic nose again, shaking her head as she stood aside, opening the door wider.

 

“Granted this is my calling, but . . . I do not get recompensed enough to endure such trials,” she muttered in that familiar, but incomprehensible language, waving, then gesturing broadly for the ox-boy to enter her dim, Spartan office. Leaving off his impersonation of the two scavengers, he slipped into the candle-lit, cell-like space past her, eyes wide again as he looked around. As she shut the weighty metal door and watched him take in the room, with its sturdy wooden desk and three chairs, wooden cabinets, and many occupied wood-and-stone shelves, the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ crossed her arms and leaned against the door. Biting her lip before speaking again she enunciated quietly, slowly, as if to a fractious child. “Can you at least tell me your patronymic or planet of origin?”

 

After nearly a minute of staring around the room, the ox-boy turned to his hostess, smiling Brother An’s smile again, but with far more in the way of midnight teeth.

 

“ _Hút vòi n_ _ước c_ _ủa t_ _ôi,_ _đ_ _ầu ti_ _ên_ ,” he said in vapidly sly tones: _Suck my cock, first._ It was a perfect repetition of the poetic scavenger’s young man, down to the inflection and the hand that rubbed meaningfully at his crotch.

 

The _hướng dẫn_ made a moue of distaste before moving along the edges of her office to a closed wooden cabinet set high on the wall perpendicular to her desk, which she opened. Inside was a sleek, silver screen, approximately forty-two inches wide and possessed of several buttons, affixed to the back of the shallow cabinet. She pushed the largest button and the screen flared to bright-white life, causing the ox-boy to start, utter a hoarse cry, and draw away from the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_  and the cabinet, his eyes as round as cabbages and twice as large.

 

“Not nearly enough recompense for this nonsense,” the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ muttered to herself, pushing more buttons until the bright-white glare resolved to a round, pleasant, and very pink face with matching pink eyes, curling mink-brown hair, ridiculous cleavage in a tight, clashing red blouse, and a silver-accented, cream-colored background.

 

Those pink eyes widened with faux-surprise. Of course, the intermediary had known who was calling before she'd answered. Else she’d not have answered at all.

 

“Fintla the Shriven! What an exciting surprise!” the Xandarian woman—the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn’s_ most trusted (unbelievably) and reliable go-between. “Is there some way I may be of assistance? Or perhaps you called to chat, in which case, I can certainly oblige you! Have you been keeping up with galactic and Xandarian news, lately? That creepy Kree Accuser, Ro—”

 

“Morelle,” the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ greeted the Xandarian intermediary politely, gritting her obsidian teeth and inclining her head. “I did not call for chat or fripperies. I need to send a message to Hala and it must be sent to the usual recipient as quickly and discreetly as possible.”

 

Morelle blinked her big, pink eyes and tossed her loose, brown curls before a subtle change came over her pleasant, common features. Suddenly, the pink woman was all business, though hints of irreverence remained. “For you, tall, dark, and spooky? Anything. What’s the message and how deep’s the shadow?”

 

“First . . . tell me to whom you are planning to entrust delivery of my message. I shall craft a missive and choose an op-level accordingly.”

 

Nodding, Morelle chewed and blew a perfect, purple bubble with her customary gum and waved an absent hand. “Eh. Discreet guy—real circumspect. Goes by the name of Sun-Prince. He’s not exactly on the shiny-side of the law, but considering that he recently pulled our collective, Xandarian butts out of a literal fire not long ago . . . Nova Prime and the Corps are likely to look the other way when it comes to anything he does short of murder or treason. He’s kind of a hero on Xandar, at the moment. Not to mention he's got an ass you could bounce six units off of.”

 

Rolling her eyes, the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ crossed her arms. “He sounds like exactly the sort of high profile individual who is entirely unsuited to any sort of espionage.”

 

“Which is exactly what makes him perfect for it. No one would suspect the hero of Xandar to be running messages to the Kree homeworld. But run a message, he will. For a fee, of course.”

 

Frowning, the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ pinched the bridge of her nose again: a Terran habit that had rubbed off on her. “Of course. Half now and half upon receipt of a reply, as usual.”

 

“Of course,” Morelle replied, also showing off her skills at mimicry. Then she snorted. “So. What’s the message, buns-of-vibranium?”

 

Rolling her eyes once more, the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ glanced over her shoulder at the amazed and no longer cowering ox-boy. The certainty she harbored about him only grew as she studied his frame, musculature, eyes, and height.

 

The lotus-eyed ox-boy, indeed.

 

Eyes narrowing, the _hướng dẫn_ pursed her mouth before answering. When she spoke, her voice was without inflection and perfectly modulated again, just like the neutral face she presented to Morelle once more.

 

“Another Kree fugitive has arrived at the Temple. Whether he was left here or crashed has not been determined. He may have been mind-wiped or suffered a head injury. Please advise as soon as possible.”

 

“Got it, cold-stuff. Uh—anything else?” Morelle asked, popping her gum and adjusting her cleavage in its low décolletage without a trace of self-consciousness. The _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ sighed yet again and opened her mouth to say no.

 

“ _B_ _ạn l_ _ấy v_ _òi n_ _ước c_ _ủa t_ _ôi r_ _ất_ _đ_ _ẹp_. . . .” the ox-boy murmured in gentle, lover’s tones, sidling closer to the screen, his face still awed. The _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ glared at Morelle, whose mouth had dropped open so wide her gum fell out and down her low-cut blouse.

 

( _You take my cock so pretty_ , the ox-boy had said, and clearly, Morelle’s translator was not only working, but the software was apparently familiar with particular Terran dialects and phrases, judging by Morelle’s reaction.)

 

“That will be all, Morelle. Discretion and speed are my main concerns. Can your . . . Sun-Prince meet those requirements?”

 

“Sure, sure. The _Milano’s_ the fastest ship in the galaxy. Nova Prime’s made sure of _that_. Now, that albatross could make the _Kessel Run_ in less than twelve parsecs,” Morelle reassured the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ , who raised an eyebrow.

 

“I am unfamiliar with the ship or the route, but I suppose I have no choice but to take you at your word.”

 

Morelle dimpled brightly. “That’s the kinda confidence in my services that I like to hear! I tell ya, blue-bell, you’re gettin’ sentimental in your old—”

 

The _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ pressed the power button and the screen thankfully cut-off. All that bright, cheerful Xandarian pink had only made her burgeoning headache worse.

 

She eyed the ox-boy warily and he eyed her back, his gaze occasionally flicking to the now-dark screen. Then back to his hostess.

 

“What am I to do with you until the Matriarch responds?” the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn_ asked herself under her breath. Then she addressed the ox-boy directly, slowly, loudly. “Is there anything of which you are in want or need?”

 

The ox-boy smiled Brother An’s smile again and said—in perfect Midwestern-American English—while laughing raucously: “Hoo! Pussy! Hoo! It’s been nearly twenty years!”

 

Fintla the Shriven, the _h_ _ướng d_ _ẫn,_ or leader of the Priests of Pama and protector of the Temple-Without-a-Name, buried her face in her strong, large hands and—in spite of the fact that her position was a life-long one . . . or maybe _because_ of it—strongly considered retirement and all that went with it.

 

Meanwhile, the lotus-eyed ox-boy continued to smile and smile, and laugh and laugh.

 

#

 

Half-way across the galaxy, Peter Jason Quill, a.k.a. Star-lord, startled out of sleep when a harsh, annoyed voice called his name. Still giggling and snorting about something he couldn’t remember, he rubbed his eyes and shifted uncomfortably in the captain’s chair.

 

“I’m up, I’m up . . . I was just . . . resting my eyes to . . . help me concentrate on some, uh . . . precise calculations,” he said quickly, stifling a yawn and a final giggle. “Gotta shut out those distractions and keep ‘em to a minimum, amirite?”

 

“Uh-huh. Riiiiight,” Rocket said with as much sarcasm as he could infuse into any statement, no matter how innocuous. And that was saying something. The raccoon-like jerk hopped up on the co-pilot’s console, swinging his diminutive legs as he pointed at Peter’s crotch. “Granted, I’ve seen _bigger_ distractions, but I wouldn’t call _that one_ minimum, per se. That, right there, is a pretty _proportional_ distraction.”

 

“Fuckin’ _Jesus_ , Rocket!” Peter exclaimed, covering his distended crotch with his hands. One of these days, he’d just accept that the cons of wearing tight-ass leather pants far outweighed the pros—which basically consisted of nothing more than _they make my ass look even_ more _amazing_ —and start wearing yoga pants or chinos or something. But until that day, he supposed there was nothing for it but to put up with Rocket giving him shit over his morning wood.

 

Or whatever time it was.

 

"You're, like, eighty-six point five percent dick, right now," Peter mumbled, trying to will away his blush under Rocket's amused gaze.

 

“Hey, _I’m_ not the one sleep-flyin’, Quill, so _you_ got _no_ call takin’ that high and mighty tone. Furthermore,” the asshole rodent went on, his dark, beady little eyes filled with unholy and unrighteous glee. “Furthermore, you’re just not gonna be happy till ya sleep-fly your way into parkin’ this bird in an asteroid, huh? I can see the Galactic News Network's crawl, now: _Guardians of the Galaxy Done in by Jackass-Captain's Wet Dream. . . ._ ”

 

“I—I—shut up!” Peter gritted out, glaring out the viewport with a gaze that could've set the nearer stars ablaze. Well, more than they already were. “I’m _not_ gonna explain or apologize to a psychotic, talking raccoon for having a sex-drive! Especially since my sex-drive is _none_ of that psychotic, talking raccoon's beeswax!”

 

Rocket smirked and sneered simultaneously. And in such a way that even Peter found it smarmy.

 

“Ya dreamin’ about that Askervarian skank ya gave the ol’ in-out-in-out to? Ya filthy, fuckin’ pre-vert.”

 

Peter blushed hotter as Rocket snickered, grateful that at least Gamora wasn’t there to stare down at him with her silent, amused disapproval. “One time! It was _one time_ , as part of a _job_ , and I get a rep for bein’ a pervert?”

 

Rocket shrugged. “Hey—if the cock-ring fits, Quill. . . .”

 

“Shut up, butt-munch,” Peter said again grumpily, standing up carefully and hobbling his way out of the bridge’s tight confines. His hands were still cupped over his crotch. “Look, can you just . . . take the wheel for a few minutes while I . . . splash some water on my face?”

 

“I’m not your lackey, Quill! I was just on my way to get somethin’ to eat when I heard you gigglin’ like a Xandarian school girl in ya sleep, and poked my head in! Hey! Get _back_ here! It’s not my shift for another _three hours_! Quill! _Quill_!”

 

“Sorry, Rocket—in space, no one can hear you bitch!” Peter called back, smirking grimly all the way to his quarters, where he immediately flopped on his messy bed, sprawled on his none-too-clean sheets, and unzipped his fly. He didn't even bother to struggle out of the sexy-ass leather pants.

 

Taking his whatever-time-it-was wood in hand he made quick work of stroking off—nothing fancy or drawn out, just efficient, rough jacking off—to nothing more specific than thoughts of smooth, cool skin, bluer than frost-bite and sapphires, and a flash of eyes that went from a deep, but not uncommon shade of purple, to an electric, violent-violet capable of ending life with a touch. With a _glance_.

 

(And they’d certainly ended _Peter’s_ life as he’d known it.)

 

It didn’t take long, with even such fantasy stimulus, for Peter to reach the edge . . . where he teetered and lingered, but for the life of him couldn’t come. . . .

 

Until, for a moment, he could’ve sworn he felt a warm breath in his right ear, soft full lips brushing the lobe, and a deep, resonant laugh that made his teeth vibrate.

 

 _You take my cock so prettily_ , a purring, amused-bordering-on-mocking baritone noted with absent praise that made Peter flush and moan needily. _How ironic to see the Ravager so willingly and joyfully become the ravaged!_  it added, more than just _bordering_ on mocking Peter, now. It always waited for Peter's most vulnerable, excellent, and devastatingly _raw_ moments to lay him so bare. And in so doing, _owned_ Peter completely.  _Now_ come for me _, Quill. Let the ragged miscreants you call friends know to whom you belong. To whom you’ve_ always _belonged and always_ will _. Scream my name as you climax and tell the entire galaxy who you_ truly _are, Star-lord. . . ._

 

Peter’s body went stiff, arching up off his bed as he came hard and copiously, his nerve endings screeching at the mix of pleasure and pain that was coming so suddenly and intensely, on command.

 

Then he was collapsing to his bed, spent and wrung-out. Wrecked and despairing because . . . it’d _happened_ again.

 

It’d happened _again_.

 

For the seventeenth time in the thirteen days since they left Xandar, Peter Quill, a.k.a. Star-lord had been both rendered hard and unable to come until ordered to by what was at _best_ a figment of his exhausted imagination and at worst, a shade or poltergeist of the _looniest_ Kree in a galaxy that was unfortunately  _full_ of loony-ass Kree.

 

And despite having come so hard he could taste colors and smell space-time, he knew he’d still drop into a fitful beta-state that featured dreams he did his best to forget upon waking, as opposed to the semi-restful sleep he used to get before he started batting for the Light.

 

Closing his eyes—squinching them shut _tight_ —Peter didn’t even wait for his panting and gasping and shuddering to lessen much before he was chasing what passed for rest these days down the rabbit hole. _Hoping_ for oblivion, but knowing that not only wouldn’t he get it, but he didn’t _deserve_ it.

 

And he was _gone_. Just . . . _lost_ to his vivid dreams of violet and cobalt, green and brown, before the last echoes of the desperately-wailed name that otherwise stayed locked behind his teeth finished rebounding off his (mostly) sound-proof walls.

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 1: It Leads You Here, Despite Your Destination. Under the Milky Way, Tonight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More dreams. More porn. Peter and co. complete their mission and get a new one that’ll take them to a familiar place, indeed. And the Lotus-Eyed Ox-Boy and Brother An have a heart-to-heart while stargazing: the former learns the value of the lost art of keeping a secret and the latter is nonetheless a willing ear. Also? The memory of dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Earth-616 AU, post-GoTG film. Set post-film by several months, after the prologue.

* * *

Chapter 1: It Leads You Here, Despite Your Destination. Under the Milky Way, Tonight.

* * *

 

 

“ . . . and _that_ , as they say, is that,” Rocket sniffed irritably, sarcastically, as Morelle transferred the promised units to their account—plus the discretion-bonus, but _minus_ the speed-bonus . . . apparently five and a half months to get from Xandar to freakin’ Hala, unnoticed, unkilled, and unimprisoned, then _back,_ with the reply _and_ no tail, was _not_ a reasonable amount of turn-around time—then signed off with a final flirty wink for Peter, who couldn’t help but smile, bonus notwithstanding. Xandarian girls were his weakness.

 

Among other things best left unacknowledged while awake.

 

“Ugh, can you believe that, Quill? We bust our asses deliverin’ three sentences to one of the most heavily guarded systems in the galaxy, play hide-n-seek waitin’ for a damn _reply_ , then make it back _here_ without gettin’ caught or blowed-up, and _this_ is the thanks we get? _Half_ our promised bonus?” Rocket snorted, grabbing his crotch and tugging in the general direction of the forward viewscreen, though it only showed the usual dull-grey expanse of Xandar’s main space-dock, in orbit around the homeworld.

 

“It is what it is, Roc,” Peter said absently, brooding at said space dock. One of the workers hustling around doing whatever it was they did, was a tall, lanky Kree with the sky-blue skin of a half-caste. Half-Kree nobility, half . . . something else. Perhaps even one of the lower-caste pink-skinned Kree, often to be found out and about in the galaxy, unlike their bluer-toned brethren. (Not likely a Xandarian or Terran mix, though anything was possible.)

 

Watching this Kree worker move around—efficient, powerful, quick, but unhurried—Peter found himself thinking that though the man was the right height, his build was too slim. Too . . . lean. His hair, spiky and platinum blond, was too . . . _existent_ to look _right_. Though Peter also had a weakness for dark hair and skin, anyway. Blonds weren’t to his general taste.

 

And, of course, the Kree worker’s lack of armor and war-paint was just . . . _wrong_.

 

“. . . you even listenin’ to me, Quill?” Rocket was demanding, waving one diminutive hand in front of Peter’s face. Peter shook himself out of his reverie and glanced around. Gamora was watching him with her dark, knowing, inscrutable eyes. Drax was watching _her_ with his pale, wondering, quite plainly fascinated eyes. In his special holder and pot, Groot—already four feet tall and with great taste in dance music—was staring at the tape-deck as if confused about why it wasn’t making the sounds he so enjoyed swaying to.

 

Rocket, however, only had eyes for Peter. Glaring, red, _angry_ eyes. His muzzle was even doing that twitching-thing that meant he was about to start screeching about some damn thing or other.

 

Peter hurried to head _that_ off at the pass. “Look, if you want, you guys can divvy up half of my share of the take between yourselves to make up for the bonus units we didn’t get, ‘kay?”

 

Rocket blinked at him for a few moments, clearly surprised and nonplussed, before finally tugging on his head-fur in what appeared to be sheer frustration. “No, it’s _not_ _'kay_ , _Star-Lord_! We been livin’ hand to mouth like scavengers, sneakin’ around to get this job done—and then we don’t get paid what we was _promised_ by that bubblegum-chompin’ ditz, and now _you_ —who’s been actin’ like a friggin’ space-case since we saved Xandar six months ago—are just _givin’ away units_ for _free_? _No_ , there’s nothin’ ‘ _kay_ about this situation! The fuck, Quill?! What’s goin’ _on_ with you, lately?”

 

“Rocket is right, my friend,” Drax said softly, for once glancing away from Gamora, his gaze turning concerned as he gave Peter a measuring sort of look. “You are easily distracted and tired these many months. Always yawning and napping and . . . _staring off into space_. Even when you are _not_ near the viewscreen.”

 

“You’re gettin’ better at metaphors,” Rocket noted, in a true example of easily distracted, sounding unwillingly impressed. At his elbow, Groot nodded encouragingly, with a quietly chirped: “We are Groot!”

 

Drax inclined his head with his usual stilted grace.

 

“It is well to note that my efforts at metaphoric thinking and speech have not been wasted, friends,” he replied, glancing at Gamora, who smiled so briefly and small, Peter was scarcely certain she had at all. Then she was meeting his gaze candidly.

 

“Something’s going on with you, Peter. We’ve all noticed. You _do_ sleep more than you used to, though apparently not restfully. You barely eat, barely talk anymore, and it’s been _weeks_ since you were the one to put on one of the Awesome Mixes.” Gamora quirked an eyebrow when Peter’s mouth dropped open in realization. “Will you at last _talk_ with us, perhaps let us help you figure out what’s happening and how to make things right, again?”

 

Peter, blinking tired, blurry eyes, wavered for a moment.

 

But a moment _only_.

 

He smiled limply, standing up. As ever, these days, even standing seemed to make his body notice how tired it was, and he stretched and yawned. The other four exchanged glances and Peter knew why. With his eyes in grey hollows, his scruffier-than-usual face-fuzz, mussy bedhead, less-than-fresh orange t-shirt, and baggy, tan drawstring pants, he looked like a hot mess, as his Mama might’ve said, back when she was capable of saying anything at all.

 

“We’re worried about ya, Quill,” Rocket said grimly as Peter strode past with a pat on the head for the furry asshole and for a smiling, swaying Groot.

 

“You shouldn’t be. I’m fine as paint. The _good_ kind, not that cheap shit they sell in strip-mall hardware stores,” he added, trying to widen his smile and make a joke. But both smile and joke fell flat and he shrugged, easing past Gamora and Drax, making a grossed-out face. He could practically smell the pheromones. _Ugh_.

 

“Where’re you going?” Gamora called after him.

 

“To catch a few Zzz’s. You’ve got the bridge, ‘Mora. Gimme a buzz when we’re cleared to leave Xandarian space.”

 

The last thing Peter heard as he climbed out of the cockpit was the whispered argument between his friends—well, Rocket clearly had _no_ indoor-voice, but the others did, even Groot—about his health and mental state.

 

“I think that Stone _did somethin’_ to his brain!” Rocket declared.

 

“We are Groot!” Groot piped up in agreement.

 

Drax and Gamora both murmured their replies but they spoke too low and, anyway, Peter wasn’t listening anymore.

 

 ***** “Jesus-fuck-mother-cunt- _bastard_ -shitstick,” he muttered to himself as he hopped out of the hatch and onto the main level, where the kitchen, rec-area, and everyone’s living quarters were, and shuffled blearily to his own. “Fuckin’ _dreams_ , man.”

 

#

 

“You are weary, Star-Lord.”

 

Peter smiled up at his ceiling, closing his eyes and biting back a yawn, but not the appreciative murmur and hum that escaped him as large, but gentle fingers carded fondly through his hair.

 

“Eh. Not so much when I’m with you.” Peter sighed happily, wistfully. “Anyway, I’m _always_ 'weary,' lately. _Could_ maybe have something to do with the big, imaginary, psycho Smurf who’s been hacking my dreams even though he’s dead.”

 

“Am I?”

 

Peter sighed again, ignoring the burn of tears behind his closed eyelids. He spent a few distracting moments trying to remember when, exactly, his life had become so fucked. At the very least since deciding to scam Yondu and the Ravagers out of the Orb. “Yeah, babe. Kinda. I mean, I killed you, myself. I oughtta know.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Peter shivered a minute later when that low, sensual baritone sounded in an amused chuckle that still, after months of hearing it on a near-hourly basis, _did things_ to Peter: from the goosebumps it raised on his tanned skin to the way it made the marrow in his bones quicken and dance.

 

He leaned into that fond touch, laying his head on a big, firm shoulder. Those unbidden, tears leaked from his eyes. “You’re _dead_ , it’s _my_ fault, and . . . and _dreaming_ about you only makes that hurt more.”

 

“These are not dreams. And death is not the end,” that voice said, and not for the first time, callused, gentle fingertips brushed away Peter’s tears until they slowed, then fell no more. “It is merely the beginning.”

 

“What does that even _mean_ , Imhotep?” Peter demanded, laughing a little, though that laugh was mostly sniffle. He chalked his emotionality up to the high levels of exhaustion he was laboring under.

 

“It means that _even_ _death_ cannot keep me from what is rightfully mine.”

 

“Lemme guess: vengeance against Xandar and its allies?” Peter sniffled again, and the hand carding through his hair stuttered to a brief stop before continuing smoothly.

 

“Vengeance is for children and fools,” that voice said softly, bitterly. “I knew this even as I pursued it, and yet could not stop. My rage and grief drove me to atrocities to which I, as an Accuser, should have been the first to put a stop. No, Star-Lord . . . vengeance is _not mine_.”

 

“Then what _is_ yours?” Peter dared to ask after some silent minutes had passed. When the other spoke, Peter could hear the rarest of expressions in his voice: a smile.

 

“I suppose that remains to be seen,” Peter's cryptic, annoying-as-fuck lover murmured almost playfully and Peter groaned, sinking deeper into his mattress. Into the other’s strong, possessive arms. Into _sleep_. He knew what came next. Well . . . what he _wanted_ to come next. And _who_. “There is much to be done—so much to atone for before I can be free to claim that which should have always been mine.”

 

“Maybe,” Peter allowed, yawning again, shifting a little so he could run his hand up a hard eight-pack that he was so familiar with, to a chest like malleable granite. His hand finally settled over a strong, insistent heartbeat that had lulled him to sleep many times over the past five months. “Or maybe what should’ve always been yours’ll just claim _you_ , one day.”

 

“Insolent,” that voice decided, also fondly. Peter smirked.

 

“I prefer the term _lovably disobedient_.”

 

“Mm. You _are that_.”

 

“Lovable?”

 

“Disobedient.”

 

“I . . . will take that as a compliment.”

 

“That was how it was meant.”

 

“Really? A _compliment?_ From _you_? To _me_? Fuck, Kevin Bacon would be _so_ jealous.” Peter sighed once more, letting his hand drift downward again, to the eight-pack abs and lower. He tucked his face into the junction of neck, collar, and shoulder, inhaling a strong, now-familiar scent like salt and sandalwood, and faint hints of licorice. It made Peter’s mouth water for the sweet-salt taste of cobalt skin and the _bitter_ -salt taste of the other’s release, cool and heavy on his tongue. And if Peter was thinking of sucking dick, it was _definitely_ time to steer this conversation in a southward-direction, with or without a clever segue. “I never used to enjoy giving head until you, y’know?”

 

“I had figured as much, for the reticence and dearth of enthusiasm you showed the first few times we indulged in such an act,” the other noted as Peter stroked him from half, to full hardness . . . tracing veins, folds, and the small, gill-like orifices for self-lubrication that evolution had given Kree men had to make sex easier on their partners. With a soft groan, Peter’s lover bucked up slow and powerful into Peter’s touch, murmuring praise as Peter’s now-wet hand glided up and down his turgid flesh.

 

“You’re more’n a handful, pal, and _that_ . . . while intimidating to the point of giving me a complex, is also sexy as _fuck_.”

 

“I _am_ Kree,” the other stated, as if that explained both his huge dick and endless sexiness. Peter snorted, and supposed it _did._

 

“And _Kree_ is synonymous with _modest_.”

 

“Modesty, like vanity, is an extreme suited only to those with something to hide.”

 

“Y’know, if you can still think some Romulan-shit like that, let alone say it, I’m clearly not doing this right,” Peter groused, only for his partner to chuckle.

 

“Perhaps. And though I do not know what a _Romulan_ is, you might more efficiently render me speechless and thoughtless with that talented _mouth_ , Star-Lord.”

 

“Subtle, you _ain’t_.” Peter rolled his eyes, but started to shift over so that he was between his lover’s spread legs. But a moment later, _he_ was being rolled over and pinned, one insistent knee spreading _his_ legs as a large, cool body settled between them. Peter smiled and wrapped his arms around his lover. But he didn’t open his eyes. He _never_ did when they were together. “What happened to me givin’ you a beej, baby? Fickle bitch . . . don’tcha like my mouth, anymore?”

 

A room-temperature face pressed itself to his neck—a veritable _furnace_ , in these moments, when it came to his partner’s average bodily temperature—and soft, full lips whispered against his pulse.

 

“Your mouth is a source of _endless_ delight to me, Peter Quill.” Those lips trailed kisses up toward Peter’s. “Irreverent, brave, silly, honest, and unexpectedly irresistible.” At this, those lips stole several deep kisses that left Peter gasping for air, gasping for _more_ , even as large fingers, covered in his lover’s lube and precome, sought to prepare him. Or unmake him. “So sweet and addictive, this mouth.”

 

It was said wistfully, but not without some frustration and rue.

 

In an effort to distract, to keep them in this totally boss-ass moment, Peter tightened his arms around the other’s neck and leaned their foreheads together. “My mouth is _yours_ , y’know? Whenever, however you want it. The same goes for the rest of me.”

 

Peter’s lover pushed his right left up higher, two thick fingers slowly, carefully working their way past the tight ring of muscle at Peter’s entrance before driving forward fast and hard, hilting in Peter’s clenching, spasming body as it arched up. Peter flung his head back into his pillows and the other kissed Peter’s throat tenderly, nuzzling Peter’s scruff-covered skin.

 

“So sweet,” he murmured nipping at Peter’s neck and collar bone, pulling his fingers out and thrusting back in even harder. Repeating steadily, surely, with increasing power and intensity, till Peter was moaning and in tears once again, begging for more.

 

“Oooooh, God! Please . . . _don’t stop_!” Peter gasped as a third finger was added and the thrusting sped up, those fingers turning into a prostate-seeking missile that found its target quickly, after months of practice.

 

It took less than a dozen of those hard, unerring thrusts before Peter’s dick all but exploded, covering his abdomen and his lover’s with lava-hot come. As always, his orgasm was an epiphany. A true little death that saw him reborn slightly different than he had been.

 

As he panted and moaned from over-sensitivity and aftershocks, his lover maneuvered Peter’s limp, relaxed body just so before lining himself up, his weight born up on one strong arm, and pushing his slightly-above-room-temperature cock, with its flared and bulbous head, into Peter’s swollen, throbbing hole.

 

As usual, it hurt in the best way. Peter couldn’t stop groaning and gasping and whimpering. He nearly bit his bottom lip bloody until teasing kisses captured his abused lip, sucking at it gently in contrast to the implacable, insistent progress of the cock skewering him.

 

And by the time his lover had bottomed-out, Peter was more than half-hard again, clutching at the body anchoring his with arms, legs, and muscles, in an effort to keep him. Thorough, breath-stealing kisses were still being sucked from his swollen lips as the massive cock all but splitting him in two, pulled out slowly, then slammed back in hard. Peter saw stars and yelped, as his lover repeated this, too, over and over, before pausing very briefly to sit them both upright, settling Peter in a straddle on his lap. They both hissed as gravity took him a few centimeters deeper, sinking a still-whimpering Peter even further onto his dick.

 

Then, strong hands clamped on Peter’s waist and lifted him up and almost completely off his lover . . . before yanking him back _down_ at the same time his lover thrust _up_.

 

“God, I _love_ you!” Peter practically sobbed, clutching once more at broad shoulders, then around a strong neck. He was fully hard again, and trembling with the need to _come_. With a need to stay like this, connected and euphoric forever. “Please, I need . . . I _n-need_. . . .”

 

“What is it you need, my Star-Lord?” Peter’s lover whispered on his lips between kisses. “ _Tell me_ and I will give it to you no matter the cost.”

 

“You,” Peter gasped, leaning their foreheads together and fighting with everything in him not to open his eyes. He feared what he might—or might not—see if he did. “I need _you_. Not _dreams_. _Not_ astral projections. Not . . . whatever the _fuck_ this EST-bullshit is, baby . . . I need _you_. _Please_.”

 

Peter’s lover, gone still within him and around him, sighed. “Peter—”

 

“If you’re not a fever-dream then come _be_ with me. _If_ you’re real . . . then _come to me_. Stop teasing me with what I can’t have!”

 

“I am _not_ a dream, Peter Quill, and I do not mean to tease. And yet . . . I am not entirely of the waking world, anymore. Not _yet_. There is so much yet to be done. . . .” with another sigh, Peter’s lover nuzzled his nose. “But on this, I give you my word: One day, I _will_ come to you. I will come _to_ you and claim you properly. And until _that day_ , Star-Lord, I shall spend every moment you allow it coming _for_ you.”

 

And before Peter could respond to that, he was being pushed down to the bed again, his legs shoved up and out, higher and wider, as his lover drove into him harder than ever, with a low cry and a series of exertion-grunts. Soon, all Peter could hear was those grunts, the wet squelch of that big, thick dick burying itself in his body repeatedly, and the slap of heavy balls against his ass.

 

(These were hands-down Peter’s favorite sounds in the galaxy _ever_.)

 

All Peter could _feel_ was the delightful and obscene sense of being invaded. Taken. Possessed by something more powerful than himself. He could feel each volcanic surge of pleasure when his prostate was hit by the head of his lover’s cock. He could feel the sweet agony of each forceful thrust into his body. He could feel those large hands, gentle and reverent despite the harsh, brutal fucking, as they roamed up to his waist, down to his hips, or back to his ass. He could feel words of love and endearment murmured on the sweaty, overheated skin of his cheek. He could feel the forceful tsunami of love—which both originated there and was _infused_ there as a result of being with someone who felt the same crushing adoration for him—in his heart steal his breath.

 

And finally, he could feel the twitch-swell-pulse of the cock in him when his lover eventually stilled and, with a savage cry of both dominance and triumph, came in Peter, his release lukewarm, but copious and thick.

 

His lover was still coming when, an eternity later, Peter came once more, too, his entire consciousness exploding into white-gold light . . . until that light slowly faded into a safe, soothing, impenetrable velvet-darkness.

 

#

 

When Peter opened his eyes some unknowable span later, he was alone in bed and covered in spatters of dried come from collar to pelvis.

 

He blinked aching, gritty eyes and groaned, automatically trying to sit up, but his entire body protested, especially his back and his ass.

 

“Peter? Are you awake?”

 

Gamora’s voice over the comm. Must’ve been what woke him.

 

Blinking his blurry eyes before rubbing them, Peter then reached for the comm-button above the head of his bed. On his night-table, bright red and yellow in his dimly-lit quarters, Peter’s ancient lava-lamp seemed ethereal and unreal. He looked away, off into the shadows near his closet. “Yeah . . . ‘m awake, ‘Mora. We cleared to get the hell outta Dodge?”

 

“For a little while, now, yes. It was unanimously decided, however, that we would let you sleep for a few hours,” she added before Peter could ask. “Are you at least somewhat rested?”

 

“Meh.” Grumbling, he ran a hand through his hair and finally managed to sit up. Slowly, painstakingly. He wasn’t imagining the tickle and trickle of come and lube dripping out of his ass, adding to the huge wet-spot he’d already been laying in.

 

Even before the visitations had started five months ago, he’d have known that _particular_ trickling sensation anywhere.

 

Really, it was impossible to mistake.

 

And if that weren’t proof enough that whatever these . . . visitations were, they _weren’t_ just _dreams_ , Peter had large, livid hand-shaped bruises on his waist, hips, thighs, and no doubt his ass. A gentle touch to his neck and throat found several hickeys that would be slow to heal.

 

Another week of turtlenecks, apparently.

 

“Anyway, well, thanks for lettin’ me sleep, but I’m awake, now, and I’ll be on the bridge in a minute. Then . . . let’s go do somethin’ _bad_ , huh?”

 

“ _That’s_ the Quill I signed on with!” Rocket was heard to shout in the background, followed by a trilling, pleased: “We are Groot!”

 

“If that’s what the team wishes. However,” Gamora paused significantly, and for long enough that Peter got a bad feeling. “While you were resting, Morelle contacted us with another job offer.”

 

“Cheap bitch!” Rocket yelled. Then: “I don’t _care_ if she’s pretty, Groot! _Pretty_ don’t pay for my ammo habit!”

 

“Ugh. No way I’m goin’ back to Hala _ever in my life_ ,” Peter said just as adamantly. “And did I mention the part about me _never, ever_ _going back there again?_ ‘Cause . . . yeah. True story, FYI.”

 

“I, too, have no desire to ever undertake such a job again,” Drax agreed quietly. Gamora sighed.

 

“Morelle _said_ you would say that, Peter. She also said to mention that this job, though it ends on Hala, it begins . . . on _your_ world. On _Terra_. And it’s triple the units, two-thirds up front, final third upon completion of the job.”

 

Eyes widening, Peter took his hand off the button for a moment, his breathing coming hard and fast for nearly a minute.

 

“Peter? Are you alright?”

 

“No, yeah, I’m . . . I’m fine, ‘Mora. I’m here. That’s a, uh . . . a lotta units. What, uh . . . what in the seven spiraling Hells has _Terra_ got to do with one of Morelle’s jobs?”

 

“She wouldn’t say until and unless we accept the job,” Gamora said mildly and Peter grunted. Of _course_ , Morelle _wouldn’t_. It was her way. For a Xandarian, she was tight-lipped and played things close to the vest.

 

“Did she at least say _why_ she’s willin’ to throw away units on a bunch of glorified messenger boys runnin’ between Terra and _Hala_?”

 

“She did not,” Gamora informed him solemnly. “But she doesn’t need our services as couriers this time, Peter . . . she needs the Guardians of the Galaxy.”

 

Swinging his feet to the cluttered floor of his quarters, Peter braced his arms on the bed and stood up, waiting for almost a minute before the complaining muscles in his thighs got with the program and his legs stopped shaking.

 

He grabbed his day-glo green turtleneck, about to pull it on, then thought better of it and stepped into his small bathroom to grab an only slightly-mildewed towel. He wet it down to spot-clean the worst of the come on his torso, and running out of him and down his thighs. Then, tossing the towel and the hideous turtleneck into his shower, he stepped into his quarters proper and snagged a black pullover shirt with a high collar and slight shimmer, pulling it on before pressing the comm-button again.

 

“I’ll be on-deck in thirty,” he said, grabbing his pants from the floor in front of his night-table. Not the drawstring ones he’d been wearing for a week straight, but the ones that made his ass look super-fine. “Quill, out.”

 

#

 

“You’re not at all your usual talkative self, tonight, Little Brother,” Brother An quipped wryly a few minutes after he’d sat with a grunt on the fifth bottom step of the Temple’s façade.

 

Even sitting on the second bottom step, Sen Mắt was still markedly taller than the small priest. Yet as always, he stared up at the night sky as one truly humbled in the face of something more mighty and beautiful than he could ever hope to touch. His cheeks were wet, as they always were when the young novitiate stared up at the majestic expanse of galaxy whirling above the Temple.

 

“Brother An,” he began hesitantly in his low, breathless, resonant voice. “What is it like?”

 

When Brother An did not answer after several minutes, Sen Mắt tore his gaze from the heavens and focused on the friendly priest, his eyes still as wide as wonder and innocence could render them, his spiky, grown-out black hair standing out in many directions around his pale, strong-featured face. And _in_ the face of his solemnity, Brother An, who’d been watching his pupil curiously, found a smile, as he always did for Sen Mắt. The young man returned it shyly, hesitantly, a momentary shadow crossing his open, easy-to-read face.

 

“What is _what_ like, Sen Mắt, my friend?”

 

“ _Up there_ ,” Sen Mắt breathed, turning his gaze upward once more, as if compelled by a force he could not fight. He pointed up at the sky with one large index finger, his long, thick arm poking far below the end of the sleeve. Brother Hien, the largest of their Order, was still not so large as the Lotus-Eyed Ox-Boy who’d arrived at their door five months ago, though he was, due to a healthy appetite and fondness for the local pastries, about as wide. So at least his old tunics and trousers, though a bit tight on Sen Mắt, and _very_ short, were wearable. And Sen Mắt was still nearly as unconscious of such things as fashion or even a need for clothes in the first place, as he’d been upon his arrival. “Sister Bi’nh says that you once accompanied _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla to the stars and beyond. To the world from which she . . . and I suppose _I_ hail. Is that so?”

 

Brother An turned his own gaze up to the stars. “It’s true, Sen Mắt. I have been to the stars with _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla. Once, for a . . . Conclave of some importance,” he sighed with a combination of wistfulness and ruefulness. Sen Mắt ventured a glance at the priest.

 

“What . . . what was it like to be so . . . so free?” he asked, his voice gone even more quiet and breathless with awe. Brother An chuckled kindly. It was, as he and the others of the Order, even their austere _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ , _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla the Shriven, acknowledged, impossible not to like and humor their newest, youngest brother. His sense of wonder and innocence were breathtaking, his gentleness and instinctive kindness endearing, his fascination with the world, and everyone and everything in it refreshing.

 

“Well, it was certainly interesting,” Brother An temporized, trying to think of a way to sum up the experience. Finally, he snorted and nudged Sen Mắt with his elbow. The younger man smiled a wide, guileless smile, his purple eyes sparkling like the stars above. “It was rather harrowing, really. A bit cramped. We were in a few close-call fire-fights going and coming. But eventually . . . we made it back home. And I was glad to set foot on Terran soil, once more. Yours, truly, has left his traveling days well behind him.”

 

Sen Mắt’s dark, thick brows almost drew together into one line as he thought that over.

 

“Do you feel so penned in and trapped, here in our little Temple?” Brother An asked, still kind, but with genuine concern in his voice and demeanor. “Do you feel . . . less than free here?”

 

Sen Mắt looked away, frowning pensively, and shrugged a bit sadly. “Sometimes? I do not know how to properly quantify such a nebulous feeling. When I look up at the stars, I feel small, but safe, with the trees that frame them surrounding me and the good Earth beneath my feet. I feel . . . forgotten. Unnoticed. But then I sometimes feel . . . almost _seen_. As if some vast, far presence has turned its attention to me for a few moments, and I am being thought of and pondered in a way that will not end well. In the face of such a dire consideration, I wish only to hide and remain hidden.

 

“And then, there are _other_ times, when. . . .”

 

“When?” Brother An asked when Sen Mắt fell silent, brooding off at the ground before him, a fierce scowl taking his features for a few moments. It was the face he’d made all while he had been taught to speak Vietnamese, English, French and—one presumes, though such education had been handled by _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla, as time permitted—Kree.

 

(Brother An hadn’t seen Sen Mắt look so stymied and confused since the seventh week of his time at the Temple . . . just before the time he suddenly _got the hang of language_ , as if someone had flipped a switch, and the mimicry had blown into full-on, mostly comprehensible _communication_. Sen Mắt learned _exponentially_ fast, had a near-eidetic memory—ironic, considering his continuing amnesia about his life prior to arriving on Terra—that explained his exceptional skill at impersonation, even when he’d been just a blank slate. He was what Brother An or any other Terran would have considered a prodigy in every sense of the word. But of Sen Mắt’s quick learning and adaptation, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla merely said that, for a Kree, he was “passable.”)

 

“Sometimes, at night, when everyone else is asleep and the Temple is quiet, I. . . .” the boy’s confused frown deepened for a few moments, then he sighed and merely looked frustrated. “Sometimes, I feel as if there is something _else_. Something _important_ and _mine_ , waiting among the stars. Something I have _forgotten. Pulling_ me towards it with some urgency. And I go outside and look up and up for hours, trying to draw it to me until dawn washes out the stars, and still I am no nearer to understanding this feeling or remembering what was forgotten. Who I was before I came here. _How_ I came to be here.”

 

“Sen Mắt—”

 

“And I want to _know_ — _want_ to remember . . . but then, sometimes . . . _many_ times, I do _not_. For I fear what my life may have been, to cause me to cast away all knowledge and memory of it so completely. To so readily abandon that which is _mine_.” Sen Mắt looked over at Brother An again, his eyes worried and torn. “Sometimes, I _do_ feel trapped here, Brother An, but mostly I . . . I feel safe. Accepted. _At peace_. And I do not wish to forego that. But I also do not wish to _jeopardize_ that peace, either. If there is someone or something searching for me, it may not have my best interests at heart. Nor the best interests of any who would shelter me.”

 

Brother An chuckled again. “Even if that were the case, the Priests of Pama are not so helpless as all _that_ , Sen Mắt, my friend!”

 

Sen Mắt sighed. “I know that, Brother An. For I have witnessed and learned the many and subtle ways of defense the Order has seen fit to continue teaching me. And for which I am most grateful and doing my best to improve upon my clumsiness.”

 

“ _Clumsiness_?” Brother An snorted again. “Brother Quan says you were born to the martial arts. Born to decimate. Or born to _defend_ ,” he amended gently. “He says that he’s not teaching you, but merely reminding your body and mind of things it clearly had already learned. That between your natural Kree strength and the speed with which you seem to pick up martial skills, soon the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ will have to oversee your lessons in defense. She, alone, of this Order, is more skilled than Brother Quan. Though before too long, you may be more skilled than either of them.”

 

Sen Mắt frowned again. He was uncomfortable with praise. More so than he was with being critiqued. “Which only leads me to wonder what sort of person I was and what sort of life I lead before winding up on Terra. Before my memories were lost to me . . . or cast away.”

 

Brother An reached out and patted Sen Mắt’s knee reassuringly. “Whoever you once were, Ox-Boy, you are now _Little Brother Sen M_ _ắ_ _t_ of the Priests of Pama. You have pledged yourself to our cause, and the defense of those of gentle and good heart who cannot fight for themselves. _You_ are gentle and good. Your heart is both mighty and kind. And your fear and dismay over who you may have once been tells me that, _whoever you once were_ , you are _now_ a person of high moral and ethical character. Someone whom I will _always_ be proud to call _Brother_.”

 

Those dark brows drew together again and Sen Mắt’s lower lip pooched out unhappily. “But what if there _is_ someone out there? Or some _thing_ searching for the person I was? What if they take umbrage with your opinion of my character? What if they choose to make it an issue?”

 

“What if they _don’t_?” was Brother An’s unconcerned reply, and Sen Mắt huffed, leaning his elbows on his drawn-up knees and his chin in his large hands, while Brother An chuckled once more, then stood with another soft grunt. “You worry far too much, my young friend.”

 

Sen Mắt glanced up at Brother An as the other man clasped his shoulder. “Hmm. For all either of us knows, I may be greatly your elder. Kree live markedly longer than Terrans do. And we age much more slowly.”

 

“Unh. Don’t remind me about _age_ , kiddo.” Brother An winced as, with a final pat to Sen Mắt’s broad, muscled shoulder, he turned to climb the steps up to the Temple entrance. “And don’t stay up star-gazing for _too_ long, Ox-Boy. Even Kree-supermen need their rest. And you have to be up early tomorrow for your trip to the village with Brother Bao.”

 

At the thought of going somewhere new—with new faces and new sights!—Sen Mắt smiled a little, his existential angst momentarily forgotten for pure wonderment. It would be his first time leaving the Temple since his arrival.

 

“Do you think there will be Frenchmen there? Or even Americans?” Sen Mắt asked, wide-eyed with excitement. Then he switched from Vietnamese to English. “Do I sound like a real, American _mi-chang_ , pahd-un-nuh?”

 

Snorting and chuckling, Brother An patted his shoulder again, replying in relaxed English. “Oh, sure . . . American by way of Quang Ngai.” Another snorting laugh. “Although . . . I guess you kinda sound a little bit like further west than I’m used to. Like Oklahoma or Nebraska, maybe. Y’know: under the _Vietnamese_ accent.”

 

Sen Mắt pouted and switched back to Vietnamese. “But the other Priests all say my accent is horribly _American_. Except for _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla, who simply says I sound coarse and stubbornly _Terran_. Especially when I speak our native tongue.”

 

“Kree _is_ a . . . singular language. Sorta like German crossed with Apache crossed with Xhosa . . . except not _really_.” Brother An made a hapless face and shrugged. “I can speak it, when I _can_ speak it. There’re some words in Kree I’ll _never_ be able to pronounce correctly, due to human vocal limitations.”

 

“And _I_ still miss certain tonal variations of the Vietnamese dialects you have taught me due to a Kree inability to pick up on certain inflections of sound. It is . . . _bothersome_ ,” Sen Mắt said, the last word in English, as he didn’t yet know the Vietnamese word for it. Brother An absently offered the closest translation: _buô_ _̀_ _n b_ _ư_ _c_.

 

“Well, neither of us are perfect, nor will we ever be,” he said cheerily, then started up the stairs. “And thank goodness, because perfection is boring as shit. And, on that note, I wish you a restful night, Little Brother.”

 

“And I, you, Brother An.”

 

When the small priest had disappeared into the Temple, Sen Mắt sighed and looked up at the stars again, brooding and pouting, and kicking himself for yet again not telling Brother An about the most vexing thing of all:

 

The _dreams_.

 

Sen Mắt, like most Kree, slept briefly and lightly, when contrasted with human-needs for rest. But whenever Sen Mắt closed his eyes, for as far back as he could remember—before he even knew what dreaming _was_ , and how it differed from waking reality—he saw a pair of bright, amused, tawny-gold eyes in a scruffy-but-handsome, _mi-chang_ face, surrounded by shaggy russet hair.

 

Sometimes that face was simply smiling and/or talking at Sen Mắt. Other times, it was twisted into a rictus of pleasure so exquisite and intense, it was almost pained. And Sen Mắt could feel himself responding in strange ways to such a sight. To the glorious, tan expanse of muscle and bone beneath and around him. Holding him tight and clutching at him desperately.

 

“I _need_ you,” the dream man would whisper, biting his lower lip as if to trap in a cry. One that eventually came out on the wings of a gasp, high, soft, and wrecked, his body bearing down around Sen Mắt’s as he arched up, tears leaking out of his tightly shut eyes. “You _promised_ you’d give me whatever I need no matter what . . . and I need _you_. I _love_ you . . . _please_ , _Ronan_ —”

 

And that broken, softly husked final word would turn into a wavering wail as the dream man shook and shuddered and wept . . . still clutching at Sen Mắt as if at some last, perfect chance for happiness and contentment. Meanwhile, Sen Mắt, himself, felt on the cusp of some great revelation. One powerful enough to erase _all_ that he was and all that he had _been_ , and replace him with some _new_ being, made of pure, unbearable white-gold light. . . .

 

At that point, of course, Sen Mắt usually woke up gasping and . . . _painfully_ _erect_. _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla had, upon his hesitant mentioning of such a state, stiffly explained to him what it meant to _be_ erect. To be _hard_. To _want_ not with just one’s mind and heart, but with one’s _body_ , as well.

 

She’d seemed so uncomfortable and dismayed, that Sen Mắt had not only elected to _not_ mention to her what the dreams were about, but he’d never brought the subject up again in the two months that’d followed.

 

For some reason, perhaps fear of discomfiting his only confidant, Sen Mắt did not speak of it to Brother An at all. And _would not_.

 

And so, instead of sleeping on this night, Sen Mắt merely stared yearningly up at the stars, focusing on their sparkle and twinkle so as to put another sort of sparkle and twinkle out of his mind. One that flickered tawny and gold with easy affection and warmth. With _desire_.

 

To some limited extent, it worked. And by dawn, though he was yawning and gritty-eyed, Little Brother Sen Mắt went into the Temple, to his cell, to prepare for the day and his trip. He barely glanced at his neatly-made and dry pallet, even though after nearly two weeks of not sleeping, it called to him with a sweet, siren-song.

 

 _I would have only drenched and sullied the sheets, anyway,_ Sen Mắt thought pragmatically, remembering those tawny-gold eyes, that smooth, tan skin, and the tight, welcoming clench of needy flesh around him . . . so perfect and right, simply to remember it was to grow _hard_ , as the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ put it. And though she’d explained the state simply and plainly to him, she’d not gone on to explain what one _did_ about being hard. She’d not told him how to _quell_ such a pleasantly agonizing state. How to quench the fire burning him inside and out, from marrow to skin.

 

And waking up to soaked sheets every morning for weeks had grown, if only from a time-spent-doing-laundry stand-point, unfeasible to Sen Mắt, hence his fortnight of wakefulness.

 

 _Perhaps I will ask Brother Bao, in a roundabout way, what he does to relieve_ his _hardness, assuming he experiences it. I cannot continue to avoid sleeping forever_ , he told himself, looking down the length of his broad, muscular body, to a part of him that _also_ never seemed to sleep, these days. Even now, it was standing almost at attention. Sen Mắt made note of the sudden, but not unfamiliar urge to touch it. Stroke it.

 

Made note of it . . . then quickly washed up and redressed in more of Brother Hien’s hand-me-downs, almost crab-walking to the dining hall and still ignoring that urge to touch himself. Who knew _what_ would happen if he did? And anyway. . . .

 

Anyway, it wouldn’t do to be late for breakfast again, all because of the _memory_ of a dream.

 

TBC

 

 ***** Saw that gem in someone else’s fic, also on AO3. But I forgot to C&P the link or even the name of the piece. Googling turned up nothing. So, if anyone knows what piece that was from, let me know in comments and I’ll give full credit. Thanks.


	3. Chapter 2: Head Full of Noise; I Can't Think 'Cause it's Crushing . . . Back on My Feet; Like a Freight Train I'm Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I've got the understanding of a four-year-old/ I've got the peace of mind of a killer soul/ I've got the rationale of a New York cop/ I've got the patience of a chopping block, yeah/ Trip like I do._
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> Flashback-time, kiddies! Peter remembers the events at the end of GoTG—this is where the AU tag comes in—and the Guardians arrive at Terra for the first leg of their most recent job for Morelle. Meanwhile, also on Terra, Brother Sen Mắt, the Lotus-Eyed Ox-Boy, makes a new friend and seemingly loses the only family he can remember having in one fell swoop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Earth-616 AU, post-GoTG film. Set post-film by several months, after the prologue.

 

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 Chapter 2: Head Full of Noise; I Can't Think 'Cause it's Crushing . . . Back on My Feet; Like a Freight Train I'm Coming

 

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_“What are you doing?” Ronan the Accuser demands in an unexpectedly small and confused voice._

_In response, Peter falters momentarily, then continues to bust his best dance moves, putting hips and ass into it. “Dance-off, bro! Me and you!” Flinging his arm out in a more-than-decent pass-off toward a wrecked and wounded Gamora, Peter says her name, meaning to tag her in on his utter nonsense . . . his last-ditch attempt to distract the maniac with the magic hammer._

_But Gamora shakes her head in a frightened little: “Nope,” and Peter nods, accepting that if he’s going to give Rocket and Drax a chance to save the galaxy, he’s going to be distracting Ronan alone._

_“Subtle. Takin’ it back,” he says with a slight shrug, then putting all his effort into his moves. He does his best to not glance again at Rocket, who’s assembling something that looks eerily like a gun, considering it’s been made in under a minute from the detritus of the crashed_ Dark Aster _, and Drax, who’s partially blocking Rocket from Ronan’s possible line of sight. But, thankfully, the Kree fanatic is focused entirely on Peter, his violet eyes wide and strangely vulnerable, as if he’s both horrified and unwillingly fascinated by Peter’s moves._

_A common response to Peter's dance-hall magic. But it’s almost flattering, nonetheless._

_“What are you_ doing _?” Ronan finally demands again, rage seeping back into his voice along with suspicion and a weirdly petulant poutiness. Out of the corner of his own also-focused eye, Peter sees Rocket aim the gun-thing at Ronan, and smirks with relief so great, his knees nearly buckle._

_“Distractin’ ya, ya big turd-blossom,” Peter cheerfully informs Ronan, practically laughing as the Accuser’s round eyes widen in realization and he half-turns toward Rocket. But it’s too late. Too late._

_In a split second, Ronan’s Universal Weapon is shattered, leaving the shocked and frozen Accuser only holding a handle. But that shocked freeze lasts only for another split second, and Ronan is quick to reach toward the flying shards of his Weapon, for the falling Power Stone._

_But, again, it’s too late. Peter’s already diving for it. And for all that Kree are stronger, bigger, and_ faster _than Terrans, he grabs the Stone a split-second before Ronan’s hand closes over his own. They both fall to the ground, Peter howling silently as the power of the Infinity Stone fills him, mind, body, and soul, eating away at his very self. The power is huge and destructive—it knows no other purpose than decimation and destruction. It is a Stone of endings, not beginnings. Of death, not life._

_But, along with its vast, universe-ending power, come feelings and thoughts that simply_ could not _be Peter's own, unfurling in his mind and heart. The Stone’s power surges from his hand, up his arm, and thence throughout his body, in waves that lap away at him like the tides at a sandy shoreline. And Ronan's hand, large, powerful, and rough in its gauntlet, is clamped down ever-so-tight around Peter's own bare, scraped-up hand. His body is curled around and behind Peter's almost protectively, his other hand clenching on Peter's bicep._

 

_"Star-Lord," he grits out, his larger fingers trying to pry Peter's apart. No doubt in an attempt to retrieve the Stone. Its energy crawls over their joined hands like tiny, purple lightning. "Quill—"_

 

 _It's suddenly clear whose feelings and thoughts Peter is experiencing, for the Stone's power is also flowing through_ Ronan _—is clearly not done with its previous wielder. And for another bare moment, Peter is overflowing with images of what they,_ he and Ronan _, could do wielding the Stone as one. No . . . as_ ONE _._

 

_The very stars would tremble in their orbits at the approach of their new Gods, and Peter. . . ._

 

_Peter is, in spite of himself, listening. And maybe even liking what he hears._

 

"Quill," _Ronan grunts, his face pressed, now, into the curve of Peter's neck and shoulder, his breath harsh and cool against Peter's dirty, sweaty, purple-tinged skin. "You will destroy us all . . ._ let it go."

 

_"You just want it for yourself," Peter growls, sneering, all thoughts of ONE-ness and shared power gone . . . flown away in half a blink of an eye. And in the second half of that blink, Peter suddenly understands exactly how he can direct the power of the Stone into the Kree's ridiculous-large body at such an intensity that Ronan's great-grandparents would be blown to pieces._

 

 _Peter_ knows _and means to do it. At least until he opens his mind to the Stone and Ronan, meaning to connect the rock in his hand and the hard place clutching so desperately at him._

 

_And while he's at it, he might just end Xandar, too, since, y'know . . . he's already destroying all the annoying, unworthy shit in his path._

 

_It'd be easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy._

 

_But suddenly, there's a soft, despairing groan from behind him and the first memory invades his mind, opening like a rose disclosing a golden heart._

 

_A laugh._

 

_An embrace._

 

_The warmth of an always bustling kitchen._

_The scent of_ her _hair and . . . the sweet-tart-thick taste of cannaberries by the handful. Followed by the sobering, very-much-_ not _-sweet crack of a cruel, but controlled back-hand against his cheek. . . ._

 

 _His own blood flowing from his nose and split lip, onto the heirloom Dilaesein carpet that'd been part of_ her _noble, but meager dowry._

 

 _These memories . . . ah, these definitely_ are not _his, since he’d never been to or even_ seen _pictures of the house on Hala-homeworld-center-of-all-HOME._

_He’d_ never _known his father, either, though he somehow doubted the man was a tall, imposing, coldly angry Kree with dead, grey eyes and a quick right-handed swing._

_And Peter’s_ mother _had certainly never been a tall, statuesque, but nearly-silent woman with lotus-colored eyes and a smile that only a child named_ Ronan _ever saw and which her dead-eyed husband never would._

Her death _, unlike Meredith Quill’s, had been violent, and at the hands of her husband. An act which Ronan had not only witnessed—not only never forgotten—but had let drive and motivate him into joining and rising-up through the ranks of the Accuser Corps. Eventually advancing, before he was even a century old, to the rank of Supreme Accuser. A role in which he’d done his best to cleanse a galaxy tainted by the likes of honorless Xandarians and the spineless Cotati._

_A role in which he’d done his best to get justice for the wasted lives of his grandfather and father—whose souls had been both ruined and twisted by the war with Xandar—and the young, uncommonly kind mother who’d ultimately paid the price for her husband’s warped mind and spirit._

_No,_ Peter Quill _had never experienced these things. Had never felt power such as that which had come from the Infinity Stone. Had never, in the face of that power, felt his purpose so clearly, so unflinchingly, so_ strongly _and certainly. He’d never been so close to achieving his life’s only goal: the cleansing of the galaxy . . . only to be stymied and confused by an idiot attempting some odd sort of Terran mating-dance aimed at a being so vastly superior, such a dance and such interest was truly laughable._

_(Even the_ idea _of anyone_ wanting _to be the mate of_ Ronan _, Supreme Accuser of the Kree was beyond laughable. Though respected and feared, Ronan was_ not beloved _of anyone among his people. And certainly not among the dregs of the galaxy who dared oppose him. No, Ronan was, despite being covered in honor, power, and glory, not considered marriageable or mating-worthy by anyone but the power-mad or the_ simply mad. _For even Ronan knew that his quest for justice—for_ vengeance _—had turned him into worse than a beast . . . it had turned him into a_ monster _. A bogeyman. A tale that parents told their unruly children to frighten them into eating, sleeping, behaving,_ conforming _. . . for everyone knew that Ronan the Accuser had no qualms about killing children. . . .)_

_And yet, as Ronan watched the Terran fool sing and dance, watched the thrust of his hips and noted the muscular and intriguing curve of his backside and the bright, desperate flash of tawny-gold eyes in a bruised, dusty, rather compelling face—pink, unfortunately, but not that eye-watering, aggressively_ Xandarian _pink . . . just a simple, pale-pink mixed with tan, like the lowest caste of Kree—Ronan had . . ._ faltered _. . . ._

_No . . . Ronan had_ responded _. Not verbally, anyway, beyond questioning the Terran’s sanity, but physically: a gut- and groin-level tug that’d felt like simultaneous punches and driven the very breath out of him._

_Now, as Ronan groans, surely experiencing the same thing Peter is, only with_ Peter’s _life flashing before_ his _eyes, rather than his own, Peter, though still dazed with this newfound knowledge of his . . . enemy? . . . yanks his hand free of Ronan’s and begins to crawl away with the Stone. Behind him, still groaning, Ronan rolls away from Peter, too, as if unable to bear having Stone or Terran within spitting distance of him._

_By the time they’re both on their feet, Peter with the Stone in hand and still devouring his body and mind with its focused, disanimate dark-light—consuming his very life-force—Ronan’s staring at him with those wide, violent-violet eyes and that petulant pout. There’s something ineffably sad in his gaze and expression, as if all the fire in him, the rage and cruelty and_ need _have been replaced by despair and confusion._

_Peter is gazing at a man who was once, mere moments prior, a_ monster _. . . who was also once just a terrified and grieving boy cheated out of a proper childhood even by austere Kree standards._

_Though no longer connected to Ronan by touch and the Stone's power, for a moment, Peter is lost in Ronan’s memories again . . . captivated. In particular, by that one perfect snapshot of a morning spent in the kitchen with his mother, who’d loved to bake despite having servants to do so for her. And she only dared to flout tradition when her husband, Ronan’s temperamental father, was away on state business._

_This morning, she’d made cannaberry tarts, fighting indulgent smiles as Ronan stole handfuls of berries picked by the servants. And she’d occasionally rapped his knuckles lightly with her wooden spoon: gentle love-taps that’d forced—unusual, in that they were happening at all—giggles from the already grim and solemn, nine years old Ronan. Cold, winter-light shone in through the kitchen’s many windows, and the large room at the center of the rambling, stone house was warm and boisterous. Delicious._

_And when the tarts were finally done, Ronan and his mother—little more than a girl, even a decade into her arranged marriage to Ronan’s father—had eaten them right out of the oven and hot enough to scald their tongues still, even after blowing on them to cool them. But eat them they had, and shared them with the giggling servant girls._

_That morning had been the best of Ronan’s life, filled with laughter and ease and fellow-feeling. With familiarity and_ family _. Safety and contentedness._

_Even now, it is the memory Ronan wants to take to his grave, for surely, now that this Terran—_ Peter Quill _, called_ Star-Lord _, who had, apparently, used that undeniably compelling mating dance to distract him—has the Stone, his first act will be to sanction Ronan immediately. The Power Stone will, no doubt, consume the man, but not before he uses it to obliterate his foe._

_Ronan is ready._ More _than ready, and has been since his mother’s death. His ultimate failure only compounds this readiness to end a life that has featured the slaughter of innocents,_ children _. . . and the cleansing of entire planets. And all for nothing, in the end. Neither justice nor vengeance had been granted him by the gods of the universe._

_Ronan the Accuser is ready to_ die, _and Lord-above and Lady-below knows Peter Quill is ready to_ kill him _. To erase the mistake that is Ronan from existence with the Stone’s unchecked power. Only. . . ._

_Peter falters_ again _. Looks into Ronan’s hopeless, despairing eyes and . . ._ falters _._

_Because it didn’t have to be this way._

_Ronan smiles bleakly, mirthlessly. “Of course, it did, Star-Lord. It could not have been any other way than this.”_

_And therein lies Ronan’s downfall, as far as Peter’s concerned in these eternal moments of knowledge and comprehension between them._

_Ronan’s smile widens slightly, just enough to show obsidian teeth, framed by war-paint and sudden tears. “Perhaps. Wrath is considered a cardinal sin among many Terrans, is it not?” A brief, genuinely amused laugh. “Such a strange people you hail from, Star-Lord! Your values, your mating dances, even your manner of speech are unparalleled in the galaxy.”_

_“A_ Kree _calling_ Terrans _strange?” Peter snorts as the power of the Stone still nibbles away at his mind, filling it with songs of death, and the blessed silence that awaits at the end of all things. “If_ that _ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle—_ wait _—_ what mating dance _, bro?”_

_“And had I a heart unmarred and uncorrupted by my need to drown my pain and sorrow in the pain and sorrow of others . . . I might have taken you up on your offer, Sta—Peter.” Ronan’s eyes flash and crackle with the remnants of the Stone’s energy, like violent-violet lighting . . . before those eyes settle to a more common purple. Like lotuses. “I find you pleasing to behold, if not to listen to, and have no doubts that you would likewise be pleasing to touch. To_ take and claim _.”_

_Peter blushes and his eyes widen, even as his hand tightens on the Stone momentarily . . . before attempting to loosen his purple-knuckled death-grip. But he can’t quite . . . the Power Stone won’t_ let _him . . . not without life taken. It had been awakened from its long slumber to wreak destruction, and destruction it would wreak . . . either Ronan’s or Peter’s._

_And then . . . the galaxy._

 

_There is no stopping its power. And delay is pointless._

_“Do it!” Ronan hisses, the dregs of his once unquenchable rage making his voice crack and quaver. But this returning rage is little more_ than dregs _. Than a convenient mask and mantle which Ronan has worn for so long, he can assume it at will and without effort. “Kill me, Star-Lord, or I_ will _take the Stone from you and fulfill my promise to my father and his father! To my_ mother _! I will have vengeance for my people!”_

_And Peter knows he should do as the Kree demands. That Ronan, himself, would rather die than cleanse an entire galaxy, now. But that if given the chance, he would follow through with such a horrendous act. With regret, but no hesitation. For the Kree have no use for regret or redemption or atonement. Even the rare_ Shriven _Kree found the grasp of such concepts difficult, and worthy of a lifetime of study and practice._

_Ronan would kill until he himself is killed. Because it is all he knows. Because it is all he has left. Because it is his destiny. Because it is, he knows to his marrow, the only thing he is good at and for, and which gives his life shape and meaning._

_And it will give his death the same._

_Peter’s hand clenches on the Infinity Stone a single, eternal moment later, tight and resolute. He meets Ronan’s conflicted, but resigned gaze._

_“No,” he says softly, about to close his eyes and let the Stone consume him, rather than Ronan, despite knowing what Ronan will do to Xandar and its allies, and eventually the galaxy, once Peter is dead. And assuming Thanos doesn’t find a way to destroy him, first. But so help him, Peter—_

_—so help him, Peter_ is _sure he doesn't have it in him to kill a fellow motherless orphan. One who’d spent a glorious, gilt-edged morning baking with the only person he'd ever loved and brightening the lives of those who served them but were, when all was said and done,_ family _._

_No, Ronan has already lost enough in his life, and Heaven knows Peter understands that kind of loss better than he might like. He_ can’t _take the life of someone who never really stood a chance of being anything other than the monster he’d become. The monster cruel experience had_ made _of him._

_Peter would rather burn, instead, along with Xandar and the rest of the galaxy, than harm Ronan, now or ever. As he gazes into Ronan’s expectant eyes, Peter makes peace with the fact that he and everything he knows and loves will die in moments._

_And, strangely, the only regret_ he _has is an obscurely selfish one: He regrets that he and Ronan didn’t grow up together, friends and friendly rivals, brothers-in-arms and lovers . . . and eventually the kind of stupid saps who maybe wound up performing silly mating-dances for the other at random, inappropriate moments. . . ._

_Suddenly a different sort of despair fills Ronan’s changeable violet eyes. The despair that comes with dark and unwanted triumph. For if anyone knows Peter well enough, now, to know that Peter_ won’t _follow-through on the Stone’s desire to kill—on Xandar’s_ need _for Ronan’s destruction—it’s_ Ronan _._

_Ronan has_ won _and knows it, if that black-toothed smile below raging, sorrowing eyes is anything to go by. And Peter bows his head. For the ultimate failure that had been Ronan’s mere seconds ago, now belongs to Peter. And all that he knows and loves will burn under Ronan’s blighted touch._

“Peter _._ ”

_Blinking, Peter looks toward that soft, familiar, long-missed voice, the tears that had filled his eyes rolling down his sheet-white, purple-veined face. His own violet-flickering eyes, wide and wet, settle on_ her. _For there_ , _weak and yet stronger than she’d ever been, stronger than the foundations of the universe that won’t contain her for much longer . . . is Meredith Quill._

_Her dark-brown, almond-shaped eyes, huge in a pale, gaunt face lacking in the frame of russet curls that it’d once boasted, rest gently, fondly,_ proudly _on Peter, and she smiles, serene and affectionate._

_“_ Take my hand, Peter _,” she says, and after a moment of hesitation—not because of fear, but because he is not, he knows, worthy of the love in her eyes and the pride in her small smile—he reaches out to her . . . to his Mama. . . ._

_Her hand is cool, dry, and soft, just as he remembers. Fragile, yet holding onto him with a strength he can’t account for. And his eyes meet hers, fearful, now, of the_ disappointment _she must feel, knowing, as she_ must _, that her only son, the boy she had raised to stand up and defend the weak, even at a cost to himself, is willing to let the weak slide screaming into Hell . . . all for the sake of a maniac whose soul he knows better than his own._

_No . . . all for the sake of a_ boy _who’d once baked tarts with the woman who’d given him life, and for whom he’d burn down the entire galaxy in tribute and vengeance._

_In this moment, Peter’s head clears and his paradigm_ shifts _._

_In this moment, as much as he’s loved and revered Meredith Quill and her memory, her kind and loving spirit, her strength and bravery, her strong, unapologetic character, he knows that if he ever even showed the_ slightest _sign of pulling a Ronan, Meredith would’ve come back from her rest to whup his_ ass _._

_Because loss, even of the greatest love one has ever experienced, is no excuse to cause others the same grief. No excuse to rage and decimate and end good wherever one happens to be. That the innocent people who make up Xandarian society, and its allies, are not responsible for the Kree-Xandarian War, nor for the death of Ronan’s beloved mother. Even at eight, Peter Jason Quill would have known that. (And the only difference between the Peter of then and the Peter of now, is that one of them has lost his heart to a melancholy madman who literally cannot stop himself from destroying the same goodness and innocence that had been stripped and ripped from him at such a tender age._

_Though_ which _Peter has lost his heart is a thing that even the man, himself, cannot tell for certain.)_

_And another thing he knows . . . is that Kylan, Ronan’s mother, would_ not _have wanted the little boy whose knuckles she’d rapped playfully with a wooden spoon, whom she'd_ adored _in her quiet, sad way, to become the greatest monster the galaxy had ever spawned._

_Ronan_ has _to be stopped. For his own sake. For the sake of Xandar and the_ galaxy _. For_ Peter’s _sake. And for the sake of the women whose high hopes for them both may have been misplaced . . . but not false._

In this moment _. . . Peter Quill becomes the man his mother had always known he’d become. Becomes the person he’d always wanted to be and had seen exemplified by the Quill women and men, most notably his mother and grandfather._

_Becomes, first and foremost, a guardian of his galaxy, and everyone in it._

_Meredith Quill smiles, and closes her dark, weary eyes._

#

 

Peter Quill opened his tired, achy eyes and stared at the ceiling of his quarters.

 

For long minutes, he simply lay there, naked and chilly, breathing, letting tears roll from his eyes and down the side of his face. His weary body, after nearly half a year of waking up spent and exhausted because of the visitations, was spent and exhausted for another reason entirely, now: A grief that never, even with the passage of time, seemed to leave him. Regret that the last living memory the person he’d loved most had accrued had been the memory of his fear, hesitance, and denial. That in the moment of her _greatest_ need— _both_ their greatest need—he’d pussied-out and run away.

 

Kept on running, even when running had lead him nowhere but straight into the arms of Ravagers who at turns treated him like a mascot and a main-course.

 

And still, the grief never lost him . . . stayed easily by his side, no matter how fast and far he ran.

 

In short . . . _Peter Quill missed his mother_. He missed her _very_ much. Every moment of every day. Not just because she was his mother and he loved her beyond measure, but because if anyone would be safe in which to confide his many fears and doubts about the visitations—which had suddenly stopped, two weeks ago, almost to the day . . . the day the Guardians had received the Terran Job from Morelle—but because she might actually have an idea of what Peter should do next.

 

Aside from something that was “a bit of both.”

 

Rolling onto his right side with a silent sniffle, Peter also admitted to himself that, if the other man had not been the center of his most perplexing problem—the center of Peter’s universe, really—it was entirely possible that he’d miss Ronan _more_. Miss that sexily mercenary and calm pragmatism, [the patience of a chopping block](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/f/filter/trip+like+i+do_10115904.html), and the wisdom of a blade: and all spoken—or not—in that soothing, resonant baritone . . . or maybe it was a _basso profundo_. (Peter wasn’t sure what the qualifications for either were, other than a deep, teeth-and-bone-vibrating voice. . . .)

 

Cue Peter getting _ridiculously_ hard, ridiculously _fast_ , thinking about that voice murmuring in his ear, and those hands playing in his hair. Which quickly turned into his many sense-memories of being pinned to the bed by Ronan’s heavy, hard body as the other man kissed him to breathlessness and beyond . . . then fucked him mercilessly and endlessly.

 

Peter, of course, missed this _intensely_. Missed the act, itself, and the impossible-to-doubt realness of Ronan’s weight and voice and touch. Missed the evidences of their trysts: the bruises and scratches and bite-marks Ronan left on his body. The completely insane amounts of thick, pearlescent-white come left on Peter, in him, and around him, and the scent and taste of it. Peter missed the way his body felt humming, energized, and _right_ after the visitations . . . and Peter also missed feeling right in his _skin_. _Anchored_ , and as if Ronan was with him even when Peter’s eyes were open and he was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

 

He missed the way Ronan’s low, gentle, possessive: “ _My_ Star-Lord,” would ring in his ears for hours after he opened his eyes to his lonely reality. A reality in which Peter Jason Quill belonged to no one except a rag-tag bunch of misfits (whom Ronan _still_ had a tendency to sneer over and laugh at). A reality in which he wondered if he was truly something besides just _Peter Quill_ —ex-kidnapee, ex-Ravager, sometime guardian of the damn galaxy, Star-Lord wannabe—and maybe, as Ronan had once, sleepily declared after one of Peter’s more epic blowjobs: “You are lord of nothing so much as my once-desolate heart, Peter.”

 

(With a voice like Ronan’s, the man could get away with some truly _corny_ , purple-prosed, bodice-ripper shit, though he rarely bothered. And more was the pity, to Peter’s way of thinking. Though he’d never admit aloud that Ronan so effortlessly kicked his praise-kink into overdrive.)

 

Peter wondered if he had an actual _reason to be_ , now . . . someone to love and who loved him back—though that someone would _never_ cop to such a puny concept in plain words—and a purpose other than saving hapless civilizations from crazy aliens. He wondered if the idiotic notion of a “soulmate” wasn’t so idiotic, after all, and if, perhaps, he’d found _his_ while staring down the sight of a gun, as his grandfather might’ve said, rest his own sad soul.

 

If Peter had found his soulmate, then the fact that he’d surely killed him less than a minute later had to be a strike against him, didn’t it? And what universe in its right mind would give Peter _another_ chance to wreck something so pure and rare?

 

The fact was, killing what one loved—what one _owned_ —was a damning offense . . . even to lawless Ravagers. Maybe _especially_ to lawless Ravagers. And Peter had never felt Perdition’s flames about him so hotly as he had since the visitations had started. It was a mix of survivor’s guilt over outliving a man he’d have let himself _and_ the galaxy die for; guilt over _desiring_ that man to the point of letting the dream or shade of that man dominate and possess his body in ways that even now made Peter blush and quicken; and guilt over dreaming of/conjuring the ghost of the man he’d _loved_ , however briefly and illogically, instead of letting him at last find whatever peace Kree expected of their afterlives. Along with confusion and maybe a _lot_ of disgust at himself for submitting to that ghost taking and claiming his body in a way that Peter had never once enjoyed prior to the visitations—had, in fact, only ever used to get his way, whether during a job gone suddenly wrong or at the point of a knife—but now . . . _couldn’t live without_. As the past two weeks of nightmare-riddled sleep, when he could sleep at all, would attest.

 

Yes . . . nearly a fortnight, by Terran-reckoning, and Peter was coming apart at the seams quietly, but steadily. To the point that he was beginning to think that the Guardians shouldn’t have taken Morelle’s most recent job offer—transporting two Priests of Pama from the ass-crack of Vietnam, all the way to Hala for some super-secret reason even Morelle didn’t know. (But it must’ve been huge, since she a) seemed miffed about _not_ knowing, and b) the Guardians were to take these priests, the same people for whom they’d relayed that _last_ message, to the all but embargoed system _to which_ they’d delivered that message and from which they'd taken a reply back to Morelle.)

 

No, the Guardians should’ve taken a long, well-deserved vacay somewhere nice and warm . . . or somewhere comfortably cold, where snuggling and cuddling were a way of life. Poor _Groot_ wouldn’t enjoy it much, being trapped near a space heater, but Rocket was a _fiend_ for hot cocoa and climbing fir trees, and Drax and Gamora were probably just _looking_ for excuses to keep each other warm.

 

(Until two weeks ago, Peter had been in the same boat, if only in his dreams. And despite the Kree lower body temperature—like, half that of a Terran’s—Ronan had always done such an _exemplary_ job of keeping Peter super-warm. Even when they weren’t screwing . . . even when the big, psychotic Smurf was just holding Peter and speaking of his early childhood with halting fondness and deep, but hidden grief, Peter was never less than absolutely roasty-toasty in his lover’s massive arms.)

 

But instead, feeling restless and useless, Peter had convinced the others to take Morelle’s job, if only so he could visit Terra, which he hadn’t done in several years, since attending his grandfather’s funeral.

 

“C’mon,” Peter’d wheedled, all but on his knees and pleading. “It’ll be fun! We’ll pick up these priest-guys, maybe do a little sight-seeing—”

 

“The intermediary specified both discretion and speed greater than on the last job,” Drax said thoughtfully. Gamora, as usual, lately, agreed with him.

 

“True. She also implied that the job might become dangerous were it to be known that the Guardians were going to Terra for _any_ reason, let alone to retrieve two outlaw priests whom the Kree would _not_ hesitate to kill, were they to capture them.” Gamora’s right eyebrow quirked and she glanced at Rocket who was oiling one of his many guns. At his elbow, Groot swayed silently, solemnly, and watched them all with great curiosity.

 

“Eh. Fun-Slayer’s right,” the tiny thug finally said with a sigh, dropping his rag and looking up at Peter. “From the sound of it, if ya want your precious Terra to remain in one, egg-shaped piece, we’re gonna have to get in, get the priests, get out, and find the fastest way to Hala. Yet again. _If_ we take the job, that is.” Shaking his head, Rocket glanced at Groot—who sighed, nodded, and closed his eyes—then looked back at Peter. “Though, I gotta say, Quill, for once, the money’s really not much of an incentive to get our asses blowed up by the Kree and probably plungin’ the galaxy into another thousand-year war with those genocidal nut-jobs.”

 

Wincing at that description of the Kree—no matter how accurate, the love of Peter’s _life_ . . . maybe _all_ his lives, was a Kree who was once genocidal and maybe _still_ a nut-job . . . but he was _Peter’s_ nut-job—Peter had changed his tack to one of let’s-do-a-good-thing-because-we’re-the-only-ones-who- _can_ , and eventually convinced them all that not only was the taking of the job a sound idea, but that it was worth it for all the units coming their way. Not to mention the cosmic karma of getting one over on the Kree again, and helping the relatively few Kree left on Hala who were worth helping.

 

Oh, Peter had been _super_ eloquent and convincing.

 

Now, however, he was once more regretting his silver-tongue for talking him into a mess it wouldn’t be able to talk him out of.

 

Because suddenly . . . the idea of going to his homeworld seemed . . . really depressing and painful and ill-advised. In a way no amount of shimmery shirts and ass-enhancing leather pants could mitigate. Terra was, with his closest family dead and gone, nothing but a misery-trap. One that Peter had danced himself right into with a big ol' grin and jazz ha—

 

“Heyya, Quill? Ya awake, or dreamin’ about Askervarians again?”

 

Peter automatically hit the comm button. “Fuck you, Ranger Rick. We in Terran space, yet?”

 

“Will be in about half an hour. Ya comin’ on deck, or what?”

 

“Be there in a hot minute. In the meantime, engage the cloaking device, Number One.”

 

A brief silence, then: “Quill, I never know what the _fuck_ you’re talkin’ about.”

 

“Just—make us _invisible_ , Roc, before S.H.I.E.L.D. or whoever’s defending Terra these days sees us and decides to poke their noses in our business.”

 

“Oh!” A snort. “Why didn’tcha say that in the _first_ _place_ , Quill? Jeez, ya dick. Rocket out.”

 

Rolling his gritty eyes, Peter finally sat up and, after a minute spent working up to standing, stood. Went to his closet to root around for some Terra-appropriate garb—wouldn’t do to, Heaven forbid, be caught by S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers dressed in Ravager-typical clothes, such as leather pants and duster—selected a clean-ish, grey “I’m with stupid” t-shirt and a pair of tight, faded-soft blue jeans, and a short, dark denim jacket with hidden pockets that contained all sorts of useful and deadly surprises.

 

His usual boots would complete the outfit.

 

After a quick shower and shave—he couldn’t even jerk-off satisfactorily anymore without it turning into a teary, I-miss-Ronan fest, so he didn’t bother, ignoring his hard-on but for some grit-toothed moments to wash it—Peter dressed in the clothes he’d laid out and made his way to the bridge.

 

 _Think of all the units!_ he told himself with faux pep and optimism, adding a fake, but pretty convincing bounce to his step. _Think of all the high-paying jobs we’ll get from Morelle afterwards, because of this! So what if we have to transport a couple of Shaolin to Hala—if anyone can do that, it’s_ us _! Think of the cosmic karma! The units! The prestige!_

 

But in the end, all Peter could think about—as he stepped onto the bridge, whereon Gamora and Drax stopped their in-each-other’s-personal-space whispering to stare at him, Groot waved hello, and Rocket hopped out of the captain’s chair with a grunt and an: “All yours, jackass”—was his mother and grandfather and _Ronan_ . . . the only people he’d loved deeply. And whom he’d then _lost_ before he really had a chance to say good-bye. . . .

 

Twice, now, in Ronan's case.

 

 _Why did I think going back to Terra was a good idea? And then Hala after it? The two places that represent the best things in my life, which I’ve either lost or thrown away?_ Peter asked himself . . . or perhaps the shade of Ronan which, until two weeks ago, had been his constant companion even when his eyes were open.

 

Then Peter was sliding into the captain’s chair, his usual charming-as-fuck grin firmly on his face as Gamora activated the viewscreen.

 

There, in all its glory, was Terra: a blue and green living jewel in an otherwise dead solar system.

 

 _Wish you were here to see it with me, Ro. I’d get you some_ Arby’s _,_ Peter thought sadly. Then shook his head and pasted on that charming smile again. “Okay, Guardians! In and out like the raccoon said, right? We’ll get into low orbit, contact this, uh, Fintla the Shriven, at the coordinates Morelle gave us. Then drop into low atmo, get her and her buddy on board, and get the Hell _outta_ here before Terra’s defenses twig to our presence.”

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Gamora said slowly, exchanging a glance with Drax and Rocket. A glance which Peter pretended he didn’t see.

 

“Alright, then. Let’s get a move on! In and out, right?”

 

“We are Groot!”

 

Quirking a crooked, but genuine half-smile, Peter nodded and took them into a stable orbit behind the dark side of Luna, and at some distance from the trash and satellites that littered Terran space. God, Sol was a _shit-hole_ of a system, these days. “Glad you could join us again, Groot! Ready to make some money, buddy?”

 

A long, wide yawn and the small, plant-based life-form smiled sweetly. “We are Groot!”

 

“That’s what Star-Lord likes to hear! Terra, here we come!”

 

Only Groot seemed fooled by Peter’s fake enthusiasm. But whatever. Units were units and the job was just a _job_. A complicated and dangerous one, but still just a job. And that meant there was no room for stupid-ass feelings like homesickness, grief, unhappiness, and loss.

 

It was time to Stamos-up and _get shit done_. Get paid. And then . . . then maybe that vacay on a nice cold planet with great snowboarding and opportunities to cuddle up with one’s probably-imaginary-sweetie. (Assuming that sweetie ever resumed his conjugal visits.)

 

That, too, sounded like a plan. And [Bobby Burns, and his pessimism and mice](http://www.robertburns.org/works/75.shtml), could suck it. All day long.

 

#

 

“Are there not enough rats in these blasted jungles without you taking in _one more_ , Little Brother?”

 

Sen Mắt smiled and fed a bit of sweet _bánh rán_ to the small rodent sitting calmly and obediently on his shoulder. Brother Bao shook his head and piloted the Order’s grey, jungle-tested Jeep, which was laden with the supplies the Order could not make for itself, down the narrow dirt path at speeds which Sen Mắt found . . . inadvisable at best.

 

“He is not a rat, Brother Bao, but a [pencil-tailed tree-mouse](https://www.flickr.com/photos/26500525@N08/18248453833/),” Sen Mắt corrected, petting his new friend with the tip of one large, callused index finger. The little mouse seemed to enjoy the contact, and Sen Mắt smiled. “And I have decided his name is ***** Phêrô.”

 

Brother Bao—formerly Yvgeniy Soltin of Moscow . . . though Brother An inexplicably called the moody priest [Brother Moose-and-Squirrel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boris_Badenov)—merely shook his head again. “What a name for a rat! But my younger brother’s named Phêrô—well, _Pyotr,_ where I come from—and is more of a disgrace to the name than your new little pal, I’ll wager.”

 

Sniffing, Brother Bao took a turn in the road at full speed. Only Kree reflexes saved Phêrô from being flung out the half-rolled down window. Sen Mắt cupped the still-sanguine little creature in his large hands and looked over at Brother Bao. The sandy-haired, rubbery-faced cleric seemed distracted and even moodier than usual.

 

“Are you . . . is everything alright, Brother Bao?”

 

The priest glanced at Sen Mắt with skittering, pale-green eyes, then back at the road. “Of course. Everything is wonderful. Why wouldn't it be?”

 

“A question I had been hoping _you_ might be willing to answer,” Sen Mắt murmured, turning his gaze back down to Phêrô, who stared up at him with big, liquid-dark eyes as his tiny little paws held and nibbled at the piece of _bánh rán_ happily. “You have been anxious and discontented for the entire trip.”

 

“Eh. It only seems that way because you’re so excited about being somewhere new. I’m no more anxious and discontented than usual. You’re just so happy and upbeat today that anything less than rapturous orgasms and blissed-out squealing probably seems like deepest despair,” Brother Bao said, chuckling absently. Sen Mắt blinked and turned his curious gaze to the priest once more.

 

“What is an _orgasm_ , Brother Bao?”

 

And here, Sen Mắt had thought the priest couldn’t seem more anxious and upset.

 

“You and your rat eat those _bánh rán_ and shut up, yeah? You’re giving me a headache and distracting me. I don’t want to run this jalopy off into a ditch half an hour from home,” he muttered grimly, borscht-red about the face and glaring out the dusty windshield.

 

“Yes, Brother Bao,” Sen Mắt murmured, doing as he was told, sharing the remaining sweetened rice balls with his new friend, though his mind was much on the choleric priest’s behavior and unusual unwillingness to voice his concerns.

 

Sen Mắt was still thinking about this and sneaking glances at the nonetheless distracted priest when they arrived at the Temple and drove through the open bamboo gates. It was late afternoon and they’d probably been expected back for the past hour or two. But Sen Mắt’s determined touring of the small village and environs, and his insistence on meeting, greeting, and chatting with everyone they met, had added time to their trip.

 

Brother Bao pulled the jeep up to the front of the Temple, right at the shallow-stepped, main staircase. Sen Mắt put Phêrô and the last rice ball in his tunic’s only pocket, high on the right chest, and opened the door to jump out and help the irritable priest unload the supplies. But Brother Bao stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Leave that, lad. You and Phêrô go see the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ straight away.” Off Sen Mắt’s confused glance, Brother Bao cleared his throat and looked away, his Adam’s-apple bobbing several times before he sighed. “She told me to send you to her office as soon as we returned. So, send you, I shall. Go on, Sen Mắt. And if you see anyone on the way there, let ‘em know that some help with this stuff wouldn’t go amiss.”

 

“Yes, Brother Bao. I shall, Brother Bao.”

 

So saying, Sen Mắt, though confused, and more than a little anxious and wary, himself, exited the Jeep and shut the door. In his pocket, Phêrô squeaked to himself as he finished the last of his rice ball, then looked up at Sen Mắt almost sleepily. The Novitiate gently scratched Phêrô’s furry head with a feather-light finger and smiled as he climbed the shallow front steps.

 

“Rest, Littlest Brother, and dream of rice balls and almond milk.”

 

And, as if he understood, Littlest Brother Phêrô closed his eyes and proceeded to do just that.

 

A quick glance back at the Jeep showed Brother Bao was sitting in the driver’s seat, still, staring after Sen Mắt, with a stricken, upset look on his every-man’s face.

 

Shivering, Sen Mắt faced forward and walked on.

 

#

 

Sen Mắt knocked on _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla’s door and, when the head priest opened it, bowed slightly before stepping in. A human affectation that Sen Mắt had picked up from Brother An and which the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ tolerated with her usual weary acceptance of nearly anything.

 

“Novitiate,” she acknowledged, closing the door behind Sen Mắt. As always, since he became relatively competent with his native tongue, she spoke to him in sedate Low Kree. “How was your trip to the village?”

 

“Most enlightening, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ ,” Sen Mắt replied just as sedately, using the Vietnamese word for _enlightening_ , as there was no such word in either Low or High Kree. A fact which Sen Mắt found both telling and sad.

 

“Indeed? I see you have acquired a . . . companion,” _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla replied laconically, only for the Novitiate to smile, big and unreserved, as he lightly stroked the small, warm lump in his pocket.

 

“He is called Phêrô. I bought him from a child selling rice balls and _pho_ ,” Sen Mắt informed her quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping mouse. The _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ tilted her head curiously, then almost smiled, though the expression barely touched her faded, unreadable lilac eyes.

 

“I suppose you may bring him along with us, to Hala.”

 

Sen Mắt froze, turning his wide-eyed gaze on his superior. “Hala,” he breathed, his brow furrowing. Then he sighed. “You have heard back from the Matriarch, then.”

 

“Yes. She insisted that I escort you to Hala personally, for examination and assessment,” the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ added. Sen Mắt swallowed around the sudden catch in his throat and frowned.

 

“Examination . . . and assessment. An assessment of _what_ , if I may ask, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_?”

 

“That remains to be seen, Novitiate. It waits on the results of the examination, which the Matriarch insisted on conducting, herself.” And saying this, the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu,_ _herself_ , frowned as well. “Most unusual, but an honor, if one chooses to view it as such.”

 

From her tone, Sen Mắt inferred that it might be _easier_ , if nothing else, to think of it that way.

 

“When are we to leave?” he asked meekly, stroking his new friend’s sleeping form for his own comfort. The little tree-mouse didn’t stir.

 

“As soon as you have packed whatever you deem worth taking and said your good-byes. By sunset, hopefully,” the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ said almost absently, turning to the viewscreen and communicator hidden in her largest wall-cabinet. “Now, go make ready, and I shall inform our escort of our imminent readiness. They should arrive at sunset.”

 

“Yes, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu,_ ” Sen Mắt choked out, suddenly barely able to breathe. He needed to be out of this cramped and dim office. Outside, perhaps . . . in his usual place on the front steps. Or even in his own spare cell would do, so he could sit and think and feel . . . _whatever_ he was thinking and feeling.

 

With another slight bow, Sen Mắt turned on his heel and left _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla to her call.

 

As he pulled the heavy, rusting door shut behind him, he heard the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu’s_ calm voice speaking to whomever she’d contacted.

 

“Mr. Quill. My apprentice and I shall be ready to depart by sunset. _Do_ be punctual, if you will. . . .”

 

“ _Punctual’s_ his middle name,” a voice said in American-accented English, as provided by the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu’s_ translation program, both sarcastic and amused. “Right, Quill?”

 

“I thought his middle name was _Jason_ ,” another voice said doubtfully, also in English, and the first voice sighed.

 

“Two steps forward and three steps back, with this one. It’s amazin’ he ever gets anywhere.”

 

“That is not how I walk.”

 

“We are Groot. . . .” a third voice, a _child’s_ high voice, sighed almost sorrowfully.

 

“Agreed, Groot—it’s like bangin’ my head into a brick wall. He’s thicker than Xandarian millet-paste.”

 

This time, the response came from a fourth voice: A woman’s softly disapproving tones. “Insulting him won’t make your silly figures of speech any clearer, Rocket.”

 

“Ugh, get a _room_ , already, you two horndogs,” a fifth voice said, casual and annoyed and, for a moment, Sen Mắt froze again as a complex tsunami of emotions washed over him, leaving him feverishly hot—for a Kree—and tingling with excitement and anticipation that’d made his _pre-village_ excitement and anticipation seem like entrenched apathy.

 

He _knew_ that voice from somewhere. It was familiar in a way that had _nothing_ to do with his life since arriving at the Temple, or even the two days spent with the scavengers. No, this was a voice from his dreams. From his _memory_. From his _past_. It was—

 

—cut off as the metal door shut with a loud creak and clank, leaving Brother Sen Mắt panting as if he’d been chased down the narrow corridor that lead back to the outer halls of the Temple.

 

“Peter. _Peter_.” He murmured the unfamiliar word quietly, breathlessly, frowning and scowling at the corridor before him with unseeing eyes as he once more reached up to pet his sleeping companion.

 

The little tree-mouse twitched, but did not awaken.

 

Some minutes later, having dismissed the familiarity of that voice as mere coincidence—there were only so many audible vocal ranges in the galaxy, and it was deeply within the realm of possibility that two random people would, even in Sen Mắt’s limited experience, share similar timber and intonation—he strode down the narrow corridor. Upon reaching the main hall he did not notice the sad, knowing hails of his brothers and sisters, and directly sought the privacy and silence of his cell to try and think beyond the whirling of his confused mind. And, of course, to pack.

 

#

 

But mostly, Sen Mắt sat in thought, as he didn’t have very much in the way of personal belongings: a few sets of hand-me-down outfits of Brother Hien’s, several small, hand-written books gifted to him by Brother An, some wooden carvings he’d done, and the _côn, duan jian, dao găm,_ and _dao dài_ (staff, short sword, daggers, and halberd) with which he’d become proficient.

 

Indeed, he was packed and ready in several minutes, clothing, books, and carvings in a hempen carryall, weapons in their sheaths and holsters, when there was a knock on his door.

 

“Please, enter,” Sen Mắt called, just loud enough to be heard.

 

The door opened and Sen Mắt did not look up, merely sat at the foot of his bed, holding his weapons, with his carryall between his feet.

 

After a few minutes, a much smaller figure entered the modest cell and closed the door, then sat next to Sen Mắt gingerly, placing a warm, kind hand on his shoulder. When Sen Mắt still didn’t look up, just sat there as life as he had known it for as far back as he could clearly remember, crashed down around his ears, the other sighed. “I’m . . . sorry, my boy.”

 

“How long have you known?” Sen Mắt gritted out.

 

Another soft sigh sounded. “For about a fortnight.”

 

Sen Mắt shook his head, too devastated to be as angry as he sensed he should be. Or _could_ be. But he _did_ feel somewhat betrayed and condescended to, like a child catching a parent out in a pointless lie. “Why did you not _tell_ me?”

 

“Because telling you would have made it true and the truth . . . can be painful. All of us, even the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ , would spare you prolonged pain if we could. So we did. Perhaps we were wrong to keep the coming journey from you. Perhaps we were _selfish_. But what’s done is done.” Brother An sighed for a third time. “For what it’s worth, I— _we_ will miss you terribly, Sen Mắt.”

 

“I fear I shall never see you again. And you . . . _all of you_ . . . are my _family_ ,” Sen Mắt whispered as his vision blurred, then cleared when tears fell from his eyes to the hempen carryall.

 

“We will meet again, Little Brother Sen Mắt. Never fear,” Brother An said rather tenderly, his usually smooth voice slightly rough but stoic, as always. “Whether it’s in this life or the next . . . we will meet again.”

 

It was, at best, a cold comfort, that sentiment. But to Sen Mắt, it was better, by far, than nothing.

 

And so, he and Brother An sat in silence until, with simultaneous knowledge, they glanced at each other, then nodded, standing reluctantly. A quick check of Sen Mắt’s pocket showed that Phêrô was still fast asleep.

 

It was entirely likely that the next time the tree-mouse opened his eyes, the planet to which he’d been born would be behind him forever.

 

Behind them _both_. . . .

 

Outside, sundown continued to set the sky ablaze and, in the distance, there was a flash of that fiery light off cloaked metal alloy: the only warning given by the universe that fate and destiny were about to _spectacularly_ collide.

 

TBC

 ***** Vietnamese equivalent of _Peter_


	4. Chapter 3: You’re More Than in My Head . . . You’re More. . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brother Sen Mắt is—sort of—ready to begin his journey to the home-world he’s never seen. Enter one Peter Quill-shaped monkey wrench. Identity- and secret-reveals, galore. Awesome lyrics used in the chapter title and the chapter, ahem, _art_ , are taken from Shiny Toy Guns’ [You Are the One](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFSmvZRLZWU).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Earth-616 AU, post-GoTG film. Set post-film by several months, after the prologue.

 

* * *

 

Chapter 3: You’re More Than in My Head . . . You’re More. . . .

* * *

 

Brother Sen Mắt stepped out of the Temple, Brother An silent at his side, and Phêrô asleep in the pocket of his jungle-green tunic, and his jaw dropped at the sight before him.

 

Hovering a few meters above the ground, the last of the sunset winking off its pristine and shining hull, was a silver, orange, and blue ship which, while not terribly large, to Brother Sen Mắt, seemed as fantastical as a beanstalk leading up into the sky. It hovered patiently, silently, a bird-of-prey, swift and sure, as if awaiting permission to land. Permission it was given by a tall, grey-and-black armored person standing a short distance below and between the ship and the front steps of the Temple.

 

The armored person began to back toward the steps, as if to give the ship more room to land. When the ship had done so, with efficient grace and a minimal kick-up of dust, the warrior turned toward Sen Mắt and Brother An, the former of whom gasped.

 

The composed warrior ascended the steps unhurriedly, a small carryall not unlike Sen Mắt’s in one hand, and a large weapon—long of handle and with a grey metal-alloy, hammer-like head on the business-end—in the other. Sen Mắt glanced at Brother An, who smiled absently.

 

“She wasn’t always shriven, Little Brother,” he said quietly, his lips barely moving, his eyes curious and sad. “Before she found the Path of Service, our dear _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ went by another name. One which will, hopefully, get you both safer passage and admittance to Hala.”

 

“And what name was _that_?” Sen Mắt whispered back, his eyes wider than wonder as they ticked back and forth between the woman he’d known as _Fintla the Shriven_ for nearly the whole of his remembered life and the gorgeous ship that had landed in the front yard of the Temple with such skill and care.

 

Brother An, also staring between ship and warrior, glanced at Brother Sen Mắt briefly.

 

“Savot the Accuser,” he said hesitantly, as if uncertain he should even be telling Sen Mắt this, if the _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ hadn’t already. Then he shrugged. “She’s not been back to Hala in over a decade. Not since the Conclave, and before that . . . not since she . . . felt the Call to Service and was shriven many decades ago. And though it’s been rather a long time as we humans reckon it since her former name was heard in the galaxy and among the Kree, that name will still carry some weight. Especially the closer you two get to Hala. Traveling as Savot the Accuser Emeritus and her assistant will guarantee you both a measure of safety and entrance into Kree space that you’d not otherwise have.”

 

“Oh,” Sen Mắt breathed, then his brows furrowed. “What is an _Accuser_ , Brother An?”

 

Brother An’s mouth dropped open and he glanced at Sen Mắt once again, before sighing heavily and shaking his head. “Ask the _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ — _not now_ , boy,” he added in a quick hiss, just as Sen Mắt opened his mouth to do so, when the _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ joined them at the top step. Her faded lilac gaze was unreadable as ever. One hairless brow quirked as Sen Mắt shut his mouth on his thousand and one questions.

 

“Is something the matter, Brother Sen Mắt?” She sounded almost amused.

 

“No, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla _._ Nothing is the matter. I . . . simply have more questions than time will permit me to receive answers to. As ever,” Sen Mắt replied with a small, silent sigh. Some expression flickered across the armored _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu’s_ stoic face, there and gone so fast, Sen Mắt couldn’t tell what it signified. Then the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ ’s mouth almost curved in what was very nearly a smile, her pale eyes softening just a bit.

 

“There are many things of which I have been remiss in telling you, Brother Sen Mắt,” she said, with such a measuring gaze, the young priest flushed and looked down, hands clenching nervously on the weapons he’d forgotten he was holding. It seemed incredibly wrong to him that the _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ should feel such consternation over nothing-and-no-one _Sen M_ _ắ_ _t’s_ silly questions. “Many things, indeed. Some because they were difficult to speak of. Others because they would be difficult for you to _hear_. And others, still, because they would be truths and facts that were both: difficult to speak and to hear. To _believe_. And now is not the time to begin such a discussion,” she added when Sen Mắt glanced up eagerly, questions once more on his lips. She snorted when he pouted for a moment before his face smoothed out into the serene expression he usually wore, modeled, as it was, on her own. “Perhaps once we are ship-board and the preliminaries have been settled—once we’re on our way to Hala, and have some privacy, we can initiate such a discussion.”

 

“Yes, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla, that is—thank you!” Sen Mắt enthused in his restrained, quiet way. The way he was learning was more decorous than his once customary uncontainable glee at even the slightest pleasant occurrence. “I feel my own ignorance keenly, in this moment, and have never wished to shed it more than I do, now.”

 

“An understandable and laudable desire, Young Brother,” the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ replied, nodding and turning her gaze to Brother An without further comment. Another unreadable look flickered across her stark, severe features and for long moments, almost a minute, she stared at Brother An as if working up to saying . . . _something_. Finally, she actually _did_ smile, and bowed to him slightly. “Look after things in my absence, _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_.”

 

“Acting _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ An,” Brother An corrected mildly, holding out his left arm, which the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ put down her carryall to take without hesitation. They clasped arms as _brothers_ -in-arms would do, the seven-foot tall Kree woman and the five-foot five human man. And if _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla the Shriven— _Savot the Accuser Emeritus_ —was capable of such a commonplace feeling as sentiment, she was undoubtedly feeling some flavor of it as she stared down into Brother An’s friendly, smiling face.

 

(It was a face that Sen Mắt couldn’t imagine not seeing in the course of his day, and he’d only known Brother An for half a year. He couldn’t imagine not seeing the man’s cheerful countenance every day after _twenty years_ spent doing so.)

 

“I don’t plan on holding this position for very long, so you’ll just have to be sure and hurry back, Fintla,” Brother An added cheekily, though his eyes were very shiny.

 

Another there-and-gone flicker across the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ ’s features, then she nodded. “I certainly shall. And I will be most pleased to not find my office had suffered a small fire in my absence, An,” she added with a twitch of that small, rare smile.

 

Brother An cleared his throat and harrumphed. “That only happened _once_. Fifteen years ago, I might add.”

 

“Yes, but I had only been gone for four days. And fifteen years ago, you had, one presumes, long since reached adulthood, and were therefore supposedly responsible around open flames.”

 

Another harrumph. “Dunno what you need all those candles for, anyway. This place isn’t a shrine,” Brother An muttered, sounding somewhat offended. The _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ exchanged another surprisingly amused glance with Sen Mắt, then aimed her gaze back at Brother An, her face gone still and unreadable, once again.

 

“Aside from liking the simplicity and humility of the aesthetic, candlelight is also easier on my eyes. And besides,” those thin lips twitched minutely, “I know how it bothers you, so I find the urge to surround myself with candles nearly impossible to resist, when such fascinating botheration is added, as a bonus.”

 

And, while Brother An’s mouth was still hanging open in shock, his eyes as wide as Sen Mắt’s could be, with that, she turned on her heel, tossing over her shoulder a clipped: “Enough indulgence in sentiment. Come along, Brother Sen Mắt.”

 

With a last look and small wave at Brother An, which was returned, slow and sad, Sen Mắt hurried after the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_. Once she stepped onto the cobblestone path leading through the front yard, her already straight shoulders and back became ramrods, stiff, perfect, and unyielding. In her armor, she looked nothing like the austere priest Sen Mắt had known for his whole, brief life.

 

She looked like a Kree berserk . . . towering and alien. Especially that large hammer she carried so easily. And yet . . . such accoutrements seemed to suit her at least as well as her green and brown robe of office.

 

Sen Mắt blinked and realized he was standing at the bottom step and staring after his superior as if she’d grown a second head, instead of following her command and _her_. Once more, he hurried after the sometime- _h_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ , just as the ship opened and someone strode down the gangplank, already talking a mile a minute.

 

#

 

“So, you must be, uh, Fintla the Shriven,” Peter Quill said as he stepped down the _Milano’s_ gangplank, arms spread in welcome, though he was secretly distracted and a bit annoyed. Anxious to be off Terra, and to have put Hala behind them forever. “Morelle’s told me all of _nothing_ about you.”

 

“As it should be. I have not authorized our intermediary to give you my life story, which I doubt she even knows,” the Kree woman in familiar charcoals and black noted as she slowly and steadily approached. The little of her skin that was exposed was a deep cobalt in the last gasp of sunset, her probably-purple eyes turned to roseate gems in her dark face.

 

She, like most of the Kree Peter had ever seen, looked as if she had seen or smelled something unpalatable, to put it kindly, and was trying her best not to say something about it.

 

 _This should be an interesting and fun trip_ , Peter thought, sighing. _A priest_ and _a Kree. The levels of disapproval on my ship are about to be fucking_ epic. _She and Gamora'll get along like two cats tied up in a sack._

 

But then he _really_ looked at the woman approaching him in her stiff charcoal and black outfit . . . no, _armor_ , carrying a familiar-looking war-hammer—a _Universal Weapon_ —and froze, one hand moving discreetly toward his holstered pulse-pistol. So discreetly and slow, glaciers formed and melted, and still Peter Quill’s hand was only halfway to his own weapon.

 

The tall Kree woman approaching him noticed, nonetheless, and stopped a good distance away, Weapon not pointed at Peter but clearly at the ready. Peter mentally said _fuck it_ , and dropped his hand Billy-the-Kid-quick to his pistol.

 

“I am indeed Fintla the Shriven, Head Priest of the Order of Pama,” the Kree said in a low voice, cool and calm as cucumbers in winter. Peter, himself, froze, his fingers just brushing the cool alloy of his pistol’s grip.

 

“’S that so? Then how come Mor—uh, the intermediary didn’t mention you’re an _Accuser_ , as well?” he demanded in a voice that was, he thought, admirably free of both shakes and squeaks, even as his mind was gibbering about Kree-vengeance and Accuser justice for . . . oh, so many crimes Peter had committed ever since he was old enough to be more than meal or mascot to the Ravagers.

 

The Accuser smiled, bland and without much levity. It certainly didn’t touch her pale, washed-out eyes.

 

“Because what Morelle does not know about me could fill the Delphic Expanse to bursting,” she said in that high-and-mighty Kree way, sniffing. “However, I am no longer a member of the Accuser Corps. I am retired. And I would appreciate it if you did not inform our intermediary of the fact that I _was_ once an Accuser. I only revert to that identity now to make our journey safer and faster. Few would dare to question even a retired Accuser’s mode of transportation or fellow travelers, Mr. Sun-Prince.”

 

Peter blinked blankly, then winced. Then sighed, shaking his head. “Okay. That’s . . . not too crazy-sounding. And it’s _Star-Lord_ , actually. Or Captain Quill.”

 

The ex-Accuser inclined her head very slightly: A token of respect and, as such, unexpected from a Kree, to a non-Kree. “And I am to be called Savot the Accuser Emeritus, or simply _Accuser Savot_ , for the duration of this journey, amongst yourselves and others, Captain Quill. Using my current name or identity will, of course, see us all lucky to be executed, rather than thrown onto a Kree prison planet.”

 

Shuddering, Peter nodded. “Yeah, I gotcha . . . Accuser Savot. So, where’s the other passenger? Are they another Accuser, tuh—hooo,” came whooshing out of Peter as another Kree—if only going by his height, which was in excess of seven-feet tall—carrying old-fashioned weapons, a sack-like duffel, and dressed like a total bumpkin and rube in a green tunic that stretched across his barrel of a chest and terminated well above his wrists . . . not to mention brown trousers that were a touch too tight and ended similarly above his dusty ankles. His big feet were dirty and bare.

 

This Kree was slightly taller than his Accuser-buddy, his tanned and ruddy face open and awed, as he stared up at the _Milano_. Around the familiar, perfect planes of his starkly handsome face, thick, spiky black hair stood out in all directions, clearly clean and cared-for, but just as obviously windblown and wild. Wide, round, intensely violet eyes seemed to take in every visible inch of Peter’s ship before drifting down to settle on a speechless and gaping Peter.

 

There, those violet eyes widened further with shock and recognition—then confusion—before drifting to Peter’s hand, where it was now trembling on the grip of his pistol.

 

Then, before those eyes even made their way back up to Peter’s face, the pink-skinned Kree was dropping his carryall and staff, darting faster than the speed of sound, it seemed, and moving in front of the Accuser, his halberd—seriously? What was this, a Ren-Faire? What would be next, a wench with a flagon of grog and a tray of barely-cooked meat?—aimed at Peter, his gaze gone narrow and cold. With his somehow boyish and innocent face, he should’ve looked ridiculous—should’ve looked like a _lot_ of things—but to Peter, he just looked . . . like a dream come to life.

 

Literally.

 

“ _Rút ra vũ khí đó và tôi s_ _ẽ_ _không ng_ _ầ_ _n ng_ _ạ_ _i s_ _ử_ _d_ _ụ_ _ng bom mìn_ ,” the Kree rube—ironic that of the two Kree, the rube, not the Accuser, was apparently the more dangerous one—said in a flat, unafraid voice, so familiar and deep and missed . . . _beloved_ , that a soft sob escaped Peter’s open mouth and his hand fell away from his pistol before his translator had a chance to kick in with its rendering of Vietnamese-to-English.

 

“Draw your weapon,” the Kree rube had said in that sexy, shiver-causing voice, “and I will not hesitate to use mine.”

 

“Uh,” Peter huffed out, raising his hands in surrender as the Accuser put one steadying hand on the rube’s shoulder, murmuring something to him that made him blink away that cold, dangerous look and straighten out of his ready-stance as he suddenly smiled at Peter apologetically, aiming his halberd up at the sky as he sat the butt on the cobblestones at his feet. “Yeah. I know. Wouldn’t be the first time a sexy Kree used his, uh, _weapon_ on me, babe,” he wheezed out in a tiny, high voice that even _he_ could barely hear. And thank goodness for small favors . . . because that was a _terrible_ line, even for Peter. But even Kree-hearing hadn’t been able to pick _that_ up.

 

Or so Peter thought, till the Kree rube blinked and tilted his head at a curious angle.

 

“Truly?” A piercing, measuring look that Peter could feel in the core of him: from the way his balls tingled, to the way the marrow in his bones seemed to churn. “Have . . . _you and I_ fought each other before?” the rube asked, those big, violet eyes lit up with sudden excitement as he stepped forward. But he halted as Peter took a matching step back. “Have we _met_ each other before? Before I. . . .”

 

“Before you, uh, _what_?” Peter asked warily, at a loss for anything else to say because . . . this—none of this—could be happening, right? Random Kree didn’t just _look exactly_ like other random, not to mention _dead_ Kree, did they? Because, pink skin aside, this rube looked exactly like—

 

 _But that’s_ impossible, Peter thought, shaking his head, still agape and now backing up the gangplank a bit more. Meanwhile, just behind the rube, the Accuser was darting a far-too-canny gaze from Peter to her compatriot, and back again.

 

“Before I . . . before six months ago . . . before I lost my memories,” the rube said in a soft, sad voice, stepping toward Peter, halberd falling to the ground forgotten. For each step Peter took back, the rube took one forward, giant, graceless, and hesitant. “Before I even came to Terra, perhaps.”

 

“ _Em trai Sen M_ _ắ_ _t_ ,” Accuser Savot said in a firm voice that halted both the rube and Peter in their tracks, a mere few yards apart. The translator, still a bit slow until it heard more in this particular dialect, finally came back with: “Little Brother Lotus-Eyes.”

 

 _Yeah,_ Peter thought, staring into the rube’s long-missed eyes—eyes he hadn’t seen in six months, since he and the other Guardians had destroyed them and their bearer— _they_ are _the color of lotuses. Not violets, but_ lotuses _. . . goddamn. . . ._

 

“Peter? Is everything okay?” Gamora’s voice sounded from a few feet behind him, causing him to start. She was like a freaking _ninja_ , sometimes, and Peter’s hand very nearly dropped to his pistol again, his heart rabbiting before he could calm himself enough to glance back at her and reply.

 

“Everything’s . . . uh . . . everything.” Peter found himself moving forward once more, toward the rube, _Brother Lotus-Eyes_ , who just _couldn’t_ be—but somehow _was_ . . . maybe?—the only man Peter had ever loved. He had to know. Had to _find out_. And he had to do it _before_ the others got a look at the guy and decided to sanction first and ask questions _never_. “It’s fine, ‘Mora, please just go back in the _Mil_ —”

 

“ _Ronan_ ,” Gamora hissed as she drew abreast with Peter, her sharp profile sharpening further as she stared at Brother Lotus-Eyes with a hard, cold gaze. “He’s _alive_ , but . . . _how_?”

 

“Okay, so . . . I guess I’m not the only one noticing a resemblance, here?” Peter quipped lamely, sticking out his arm to stop her from advancing on the wide-eyed Kree. But Gamora swatted his arm away like it was nothing, already drawing her sword and _moving_ between Peter and Brother Lotus-Eyed like a blur of green, black, and crimson . . . toward the now unarmed Kree, who was still staring at Peter as if under a spell. “Hey, wait, ‘Mora—”

 

Peter had already made a grab for the back of her uniform, but she was too fast, already halving the distance between herself and Brother Lotus-Eyed, who glanced at her with some surprise as she neared him, but with no fear. Before he could even move to defend himself, the other Kree, the ex-Accuser, was in front of him, again, Universal Weapon held up and out, firing off a brief repulsor blast that hit Gamora mid-thorax and sent her flying back at Peter.

 

“Ah, shit.” The next thing Peter knew, the wind was being driven out of him twice, as Gamora hit him full-on, thence sending them both to the gangplank, where he hit like a sack of potatoes. The back of his head impacted at least as hard as the rest of him. Possibly harder because that was just his life, it seemed.

 

He groaned as dull, throbbing pain spread throughout his skull, resulting in a brief, but necessary darkness.

 

#

 

“Well,” _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla said disapprovingly as she lowered her weapon. “This is not going at all as I had planned.”

 

Snorting at the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu’s_ usual knack for understatement, Sen Mắt stepped around her, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed, to better see the fallen Terran and Zen-Whoberian.

 

Though, admittedly, Sen Mắt was only interested in the Terran’s welfare, as the Zen-Whoberian was already moaning and rolling off the still-silent and still- _still_ Terran, he found himself marking her leaf-green skin and black-and-scarlet hair.

 

For she was one of perhaps a few thousand of her kind left, scattered among the stars by the deprivations of the mad titan, Thanos.

 

As he reached the fallen pair, the Zen-Whoberian woman rolled off her companion and crawled to the right, tumbling off the side of the gangplank to the dusty ground, before collapsing with a pained, winded grunt. Which left more than enough room for Sen Mắt to drop to his knees at the Terran man’s side after pounding quickly across the space between them.

 

A quick scan of the Terran showed that he was still breathing, if pale under his lightly-tanned skin. Sen Mắt reached out and cupped the back of the Terran’s neck, sliding his hand under that messy, russet-haired head and feeling for abrasions and/or blood. And though he felt a decent-sized lump—what Brother An would call a _goose-egg_ —he felt no other injuries to the man’s skull.

 

“You will be fine, Terran,” Sen Mắt found himself murmuring softly as he shifted his grasp of the Terran’s warm body—seemingly even warmer than the average Terran’s, and that was certainly saying something . . . Terrans were like small, contained furnaces with feet—so that he’d pulled the stirring man’s torso into his lap, but was still carefully cradling his head.

 

“What’s going on?” Sen Mắt heard Brother An’s voice, slightly breathless, probably from running, as he arrived on the scene. “ _H_ _ướ_ _ng d_ _ẫ_ _n_ —”

 

“A misunderstanding, only, An,” the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ replied serenely as Sen Mắt leaned closer to the waking Terran, whose eyelids were fluttering, long, pale-gold lashes brushing his cheeks as he groaned petulantly. One trembling hand came up to settle on his forehead as he mumbled grousing nonsense about something called _Smurfs_ and their war-hammers. “A misunderstanding which, I believe, you foresaw better than I did.”

 

“What— _oh_ . . . oh, _that_ ,” Brother An said with some dismay. Then he sighed. “They recognized him?”

 

“To say the least. The Zen-Whoberian tried to attack him.”

 

“Oh, dear.”

 

“Quite.”

 

Sen Mắt was only listening with half an ear as those pale lids fluttered open and he was lost in striking tawny-gold, like a jaguar’s eyes, or even a sunrise, when it was still low on the horizon. The pupils were dark and almost pinpricks, but pinpricks that were, thankfully, the same size, so a concussion of real magnitude was unlikely. Or so Sen Mắt hoped.

 

“Are . . . are you alright?” he asked the Terran, who blinked up at him dazedly, then smiled as Sen Mắt’s large hand cupped his face with a gentleness and tenderness the priest could not have explained. The Terran man’s smile widened a little, the crooked curve of his perfect, bow-shaped lips the most enticing and lovely thing Sen Mắt had ever seen, somehow. It was also welcoming and familiar.

 

“You’re . . . you’re _real_ ,” the Terran said, his voice a breathy, breathless tenor that was like music to Sen Mắt’s ears. He found himself grinning and the Terran returned it, showing even white teeth. “I mean, like, _really real_.”

 

“Yes, I am. At least I _think_ I am real . . . therefore . . . I suppose I _am_ real?” Sen Mắt said, frowning a bit, then shrugging, his grin coming back with a vengeance. The Terran chuckled and removed his hand from his high, clear brow. That same hand reached up to cup Sen Mắt’s face, trembling and feather-light as it settled against his cheek. The Terran’s palm was warm, dry, and slightly rough, and that simple touch _electrified_ Sen Mắt . . . caused him to shiver and moan softly, his own eyes fluttering shut for a few moments as he simply . . . _was_.

 

“All those months I thought I was dreaming . . . I was so afraid to open my eyes to find you weren’t really there at all, and that I was just going batshit because of guilt and depression and grief, but . . . you were _real_. You _are_ real, and you’re _here_ , on Terra . . . you’ve just been waiting for me to find you again,” the Terran claimed, his voice cracking and torn. So much so that Sen Mắt opened his eyes again, worried, only to see the smile on the Terran’s handsome, oval face was brighter and bigger than ever, even though there were tears in his eyes and rolling down the sides of his face. “You’re _real_. You’re _here_. And you’re . . . God, baby, you’re so _beautiful_! I _forgot_ how beautiful you are. . . !”

 

Sen Mắt’s straight, thick brows lifted halfway to his hairline. No one had ever called him _beautiful_ , though Brother Bao occasionally had a way of looking at him that Sen Mắt took to mean he wasn’t _too_ displeasing to the eyes. At least _Terran_ eyes . . . but Terrans were strange, anyway. “Perhaps you are in need of medical attention, after all,” he suggested delicately, and the Terran chuckled, trying to sit up with a weary groan. But Sen Mắt stopped him easily, the hand cupping the Terran’s stubbly face moving to his right shoulder to hold him down. “Rest, for now . . . you have hit your head and may be . . . concussed.”

 

“Ah, I’m alright, baby,” the Terran whispered, his own hand sliding from Sen Mắt’s face, through his unruly hair, to the back of his head and nape, which he cupped just as reverently before urging Sen Mắt’s face down toward his own. “I’m fucking spectacular. Though I _am_ in need of some attention that’s got _nothin’ at all_ to do with medicine.”

 

“Without a medical professional to be the judge, surely you cannot know—” Sen Mắt began, eyes wide as he let the Terran guide his face down, closer, until he could smell the Terran’s breath—mint and coffee and something faintly spicy—and all he could see was striking tawny-gold under amused, curving brows.

 

This time, when the Terran attempted to sit up, Sen Mắt didn’t try to stop him, out of curiosity and a breathless anticipation that only informed him of a strange, building excitement and that sense of familiarity, too, only . . . heightened.

 

Because Sen Mắt _knew_ this Terran. Knew him well. Could feel the other stirring in his heart and the depths of his soul like a long-slumbering presence finally starting to awaken.

 

This Terran was _in_ Sen Mắt, somehow. Was a part of him from the moment Sen Mắt had first opened his eyes—to confusing green and blue whirling above him, and not much more than the knowledge of how to sit up, stand up, and walk—and maybe had been since a long time before that.

 

Even then, in those benighted days of Sen Mắt’s infancy, this Terran had lingered in him, waiting for this moment . . . buried deeper than memory and instinct, but _there_. He had _belonged_ to Sen Mắt and filled his scattered, incomprehensible dreams with those eyes and that _smile_. And that amused, warm tenor.

 

This Terran was . . . _somehow_ . . . Sen Mắt’s . . . and at a time when even Sen Mắt’s own clothes weren’t _really_ his. But what did that matter when such a _fantastic_ dream, such a beloved _jewel_ was holding Sen Mắt close and pulling him even closer? What did _anything else_ matter in the face of that—of this revelation lying so warm and right in Sen Mắt’s arms?

 

It didn’t.

 

 _Whatever_ was happening—whatever was _about_ to happen—was both good and right. And . . . a _long_ time in coming.

 

The Terran’s eyes fluttered _shut_ , this time, and Sen Mắt decided to follow suit. And just as his lashes touched his cheek, he felt the soft press of full lips on his own. After a moment of sheer shock, a searing flush of warmth flash-spread throughout his entire body like a sweet, but virulent fever—exploded within him like fire-works, causing him to moan and press the Terran’s lips with his own quite firmly.

 

When the Terran made a hungry humming sound low in his throat, Sen Mắt started to pull away reluctantly, afraid he’d done something wrong, only to get the surprise of his life when the Terran surged up into the kiss, parting his lips with a yearning plea of a sigh. His tongue, bright with mint and dark with strong coffee, tickled Sen Mắt’s thus far sealed lips for a few seconds, until Sen Mắt got the idea and opened his mouth a tiny bit.

 

The Terran’s warm, slick tongue insinuated itself into Sen Mắt’s mouth . . . causing a deep shiver and a feeling like electric shock—or maybe even a lighting-strike, ripping through Sen Mắt’s body then centering at his groin and the base of his spine—as he proceeded to learn Sen Mắt’s mouth by taste, counting his teeth boldly and teasing Sen Mắt’s own tongue.

 

Sen Mắt dared, with his skill at mimicry, to copy the Terran’s explorations by teasing back, and eventually letting his tongue be drawn into the Terran’s wet, somehow familiar mouth. He, himself, counted teeth and tickled the roof of the Terran’s mouth, occasioning a coy chuckle as the Terran broke the kiss, panting and leaning his forehead against Sen Mắt’s for a moment before loosening his grip on Sen Mắt’s nape so the priest could sit back just enough for them to meet each other’s dilated, dazed gazes.

 

“Are you . . . alright?” Sen Mắt asked again, and the Terran’s fingers clenched in Sen Mắt’s midnight-dark hair, till Sen Mắt was hissing a little at the bright flash of delicious discomfort that bordered on pain. But it was still quite an exhilarating feeling and he moaned like it was, noting the way the Terran’s eyes widened and dilated further, his kiss-swollen mouth curving in that crooked grin again.

 

“Better, now. [Because your kiss is on my list, of the best things in life, oh, babe](https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tfszg56dp3afot6jfrzrr3p4sie?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-songlyrics&u=0#),” he sang in that off-key, breathless tenor. Then he was pulling an unresisting Sen Mắt close again, in for another kiss—nuzzling his nose first and brushing tiny, teasing pecks on the corners of his mouth and on his bottom lip, before letting Sen Mắt capture his lips again with a hungry, possessive moan of his own.

 

This time Sen Mắt, though uncertain and overwhelmed, let his instinct take over and was soon controlling the kiss with more enthusiasm than expertise, but the Terran didn’t seem to mind. Not if the way he was taking Sen Mắt’s hand and pushing it from his shoulder, down his chest—where firm muscles seemed to twitch under Sen Mắt’s touch like excited tadpoles—was any indication.

 

The Terran didn’t stop pushing Sen Mắt’s hand until it’d gone lower than the Terran’s gaudy belt-buckle, coming to rest on something that was also hard and starting to stand up from the Terran’s body as if—

 

 _Oh_.

 

“You a-are . . . getting hard,” Sen Mắt murmured into their kiss only to get an amused chuckle in return and more kisses.

 

“Can’t put one over on _you_ , huh?” The Terran chuckled again, pressing Sen Mắt’s hand down on his erection and groaning. “Fuck, but lemme tell ya, baby . . . you can put one over on _me_ , anytime. Over, under, around, on, in, whatever you want and whenever.” Those tawny-gold eyes seemed to flicker and flare up at Sen Mắt as his hips slowly, almost imperceptibly began grinding up against Sen Mắt’s large palm. His eyes were wide and barely blinking, his breath stuttered and fast. “God, Ronan, I’ve missed you _so bad_. Missed your hands and your mouth and your _cock_ — _fuck!_ —I missed _you_.”

 

Sen Mắt suddenly sat back, remembering with a dash of cold reality, that not only was this Terran injured, but he clearly, whether due to head-trauma or something else, thought that Sen Mắt was someone else. Someone Sen Mắt most definitely was _not_ , because . . . because how could Sen Mắt _ever_ have forgotten . . . _this_? This kiss, this touch, this _man_? Forgotten them all except in the tangled skeins of his dreams . . . dreams from which he increasingly awoke trembling, hard, and aching for the very kiss, touch, and man he’d had not moments ago and which need, he suspected, even _unlimited_ having of those things would not sate?

 

Answer being that he _never_ would have forgotten this. _Never_. And so . . . he couldn’t possibly be the person this Terran though he was, this . . . _Ronan_. Sen Mắt’s desire for that to be otherwise was nothing more than that: desire. Wishful thinking. _Dreams_.

 

“You may have mistaken me—” Sen Mắt started to say, but the Terran was kissing him again, wet and wanton, lewd and lascivious, his hand once more pressing down on Sen Mắt’s as that tantalizing hardness got harder. And seemingly _hotter_.

 

“I’d know you anywhere, Ronan. _Anywhere_. I know your touch, your taste, your _scent_ . . . baby, I know the way you _roar_ when you come . . . and the way you whimper my name, after. I know _you_.” Another kiss and a soft groan, as the Terran nuzzled Sen Mắt’s nose again. “What I _don’t_ know, is why you’re all pink and dressed like you’re in the middle of hulking-out, but I don’t think I _care_. You’re _you_ , and that’s all that matters.”

 

“I am afraid that, while noble such a sentiment seems to be, that is not the case.”

 

Freezing, blushing, Sen Mắt immediately broke the latest kiss and removed his hand from the Terran’s crotch, looking up at _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla with wide eyes and a wet, gaping mouth.

 

“I—I—” he began, glancing from her, to Brother An, who looked amused and exasperated simultaneously.

 

“Wow. Brother Moose-and-Squirrel actually called it, this time. And here, I’d thought it was just wishful thinking on _his_ part, all his talk about you being _đ_ _ồ_ _ng tính_.” Brother An snorted and turned his gaze to the Terran with a somewhat sterner expression than his usual one. “Of course, you haven’t really had a chance to figure yourself out, yet, before this . . . space-billy grew octopus-arms and tried to kiss the lips off your face.”

 

“ _Space-billy_? Beg pardon, _Kung Fu: The Legend Continues_ , but if anyone knows how gay Ronan is, it’s _me_. _And_ my ass.” The Terran tried to sit up again, this time with Sen Mắt’s careful help and a few grunts of exertion. When he was upright, he blinked up at Brother An and the Thầy Tu, then looked at Sen Mắt, who sighed when the Terran smiled his bright, genuinely ecstatic smile. “Hell, baby, not to inflate that ego, but . . . you’re _so_ good at the gay, you turned _me_ , and Star-Lord’s a certified pussy-hound.”

 

“Is . . . is that what you wish to be called, then? Star-Lord?” Sen Mắt asked timorously, making a brief, but desperate sound as the Terran relaxed against his chest—the left side, thank goodness, or Phêrô would’ve been smothered—tucking his head under Sen Mắt's chin with a small shiver and a happy, contented sound. It was instinct for Sen Mắt to wrap his own arm around the Terran’s shoulders and pull him closer.

 

“Mm . . . you know you can call me anything you _want_ , baby . . . ‘s long as you call me _yours_.”

 

“How . . . how can I, when it is clear to me that you . . . belong to someone else? To this . . . _Ronan_?” Sen Mắt asked stiffly, unhappily, as he looked down into that wild, soft russet hair and prepared to let go of something he wanted beyond all rational concept of the word. Having never had to let go of anything in his brief memory, other than the scavengers who’d found him, Sen Mắt was quite out of his depth. But surely no letting go had _ever_ or _would_ ever hurt as much as letting go of this Star-Lord would.

 

“Ronan—”

 

“I am not this _Ronan_ of whom you speak and whom you would have me be, Star-Lord,” Sen Mắt said with cool serenity, even though his heart was racing and his body felt numb and cold. _Under the weather_ , as Brother Hien so often felt. “You may be injured and not thinking clearly, as a result, which would explain why you have confused me with this Ronan—”

 

“No,” Star-Lord said gently, smiling as he sat back a little and looked up at Sen Mắt. “For the first time in months, I’m not confused _at all_ , baby, and I don't _care_ anymore _who_ knows we belong to each other. I _know_ you. I could never _not_ know you after . . . after everything we _shared_ ,” he finished quietly, his gaze turned somber and pleading. “We held an _Infinity Stone_ together. Our minds— _our bodies and souls_ —were linked. We were _one_ , for a brief time, and that’s _not_ some shit you just forget, right? Right?”

 

Star-Lord looked from Sen Mắt to Brother An and the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_. Then back to Sen Mắt, his hand coming up to cup Sen Mắt’s face again. His eyes were very intent and intense. “You guys . . . tell him. You _know_ who he is, right?”

 

“We know who he was in another life. Who he _might_ have been, had a megalomaniacal madman imprinted his mind and personality onto Sen Mắt’s innocent and clean slate,” Brother An said, just as somberly. “We know of the man you speak of, Star-Lord. And Brother Sen Mắt is _not_ that man. By the grace of all the big and little gods who are and ever were . . . he never will be.”

 

Star-Lord’s brows drew together as he looked up at Brother An. “I’m _tellin’_ you, Padre, that _this is my Ronan_. This is the man I _love_! That I _have_ _loved_ for the past six months! I’d know him even if his skin was polka dotted and he thought he was Napoleon! I’ve been wrong about a _lotta_ things in my life, but _not_ about this. Not about _him_. He's _Ronan_.”

 

“I concur.”

 

At the half-groaned words, everyone present turned to look at the Zen-Whoberian woman, who was struggling to get to her knees next to the gangplank, her eyes wide, cold, and angry on Sen Mắt . . . but also confused. “I would know Ronan the Accuser anywhere, as well. I _have_ known him since I was a child. He trained me and my sister in combat and strategy. Helped mold us into the weapons we became with Thanos’s approval. He’s a murderer and a genocidal maniac. There’s no mistaking _anyone_ else for him,” she said, holding Sen Mắt’s gaze until he looked away, frightened and horrified now, back at Star-Lord, who’d wrapped an arm around him and seemed unable to help staring at him with those striking, but grounding eyes.

 

In those eyes, Sen Mắt suddenly knew, he would _never_ see the rage and disgust he’d seen in the Zen-Whoberian’s gaze and expression. He would never see condescension or patronization. Would never be betrayed by those eyes or lied to.

 

Those eyes _saw_ him. Saw _all of him_ , maybe, and . . . _loved_ him nonetheless for who he may have once been . . . but probably— _hopefully_ —was not.

 

Perhaps they might even love him for who he'd _become_ in the months since waking up on Terra. But that . . . such unconditional and unreasoning love and acceptance . . . that seemed to be a bridge too far. Thinking and forming assumptions that might not come to fruition no matter how hoped-for and worked-toward.

 

And so, even that familiar tawny-gold was too much for Sen Mắt to bear, at the moment, so he looked up at the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_. For _she_ had never lied to him . . . even when it might have been better for her to have done so. Less painful for them both.

 

He let his unasked questions shine out of his eyes and she sighed, shaking her head almost guiltily. And in that moment, Sen Mắt realized something he felt as if he should have known all along. One of the main foundations of his world suddenly gained feet of clay. Clay which was crumbling and flaking to pieces and shards even as Sen Mắt watched with wide, brimming eyes.

 

“ _You knew_. You _have_ known since the _beginning_ , have you not?” he asked in a small, stricken voice, not bothering to swipe at the tears that rolled down his face, seemingly scalding-hot. “You _have_ known exactly _who I am_ —or _was_ , before the scavengers found me wandering the jungle with less mind and sense than a toddler. _You knew_.”

 

The _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ bit her lip, a nervous, and therefore uncharacteristic tell. Sen Mắt shook his head as one of the few mainstays of his short life snapped and came crashing down around him. “Will you at last be truthful with me, _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla? Will you tell me who I was before I lost my memories?”

 

“Brother Sen Mắt,” the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ began almost kindly. In Sen Mắt’s arms, Star-Lord bristled.

 

“That’s _not_ his name,” he gritted out, his arm tightening around Sen Mắt’s waist as his thumb stroked Sen Mắt’s wet cheek. “ _Lotus-Eyes_ is just a placeholder. A thing you use to bury who he _really_ is under some naive construction of your own making. But he _has_ a name . . . _Accuser Savot_ —a name his _mother_ gave him. And a title he earned, just as you earned yours.”

 

“Yes. I _did_ earn the title of Supreme Accuser, and kept it for many years . . . until it was taken away from me by your precious _Ronan_.” The _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu’s_ pale eyes flashed balefully at Star-Lord, before darting to Sen Mắt, whereon they gentled as much as they ever had. “ _Of course_ , I knew from the beginning, Sen Mắt, whom you were. Or whom you _resembled_. For long I had known Ronan . . . since he was little more than a new recruit to the Accuser Corps. I, it was, who took that young Accuser under my wing. Taught him _everything_ he knew and most of what _I_ knew . . . only for him to turn on me when he’d wrung from me everything he thought of use. Then he stole what I’d thought was my most sacred calling right out from under me. And went on to use that knowledge and sacred calling to destroy whatever he deemed below his standards of perfection. Families. Children. Innocents. _Planets_. The _defenseless_. So, yes, Sen Mắt,” she whispered, another of those unreadable flickers in her eyes. “I knew whose face you wear from the moment An first brought you to my office. I knew and I kept it from you _purposely_. Not because I hate you or bear you _any_ ill will, but because of the exact _opposite_. Because I would _not_ see you burdened with the weight of what your . . . predecessor has done. With the guilt and shame that would bog down your soul for eternity simply because your soul is too pure and gentle to _not_ be haunted by the horrors of a past that is not yours to own.

 

“ _Yes_ . . . I knew. I hid the truth from you for as long as I could—and I had hoped it might be longer—because I wished to keep you innocent. And happy. But I see, now, that I was wrong to put off telling you the truth for so long. For it _is_ the face of my once-pupil that I see when I see you, Little Brother Sen Mắt,” _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ Fintla said heavily, gazing down at the cobblestones almost desperately, as if they might hold the secrets to the universe. Or perhaps simply the secret to honesty that was free of pain. “Sometimes, it is . . . difficult to even _look_ upon you, for yours _is_ the face of my former apprentice . . . of _Ronan the Accuser_.”

 

TBC


	5. Chapter 4: Our Hopes and Expectations . . . Black Holes and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far away. . . ./ The ship is taking me far away./ Far away from the memories/ Of the people who care if I live or die. . . .
> 
> After some intense back-and-forth, and at the insistence of his mentor/friend and not-quite-lover, Brother Sen Mắt ventures into the great unknown with one Peter Jason Quill. In more ways than the obvious. Groot and Rocket are grossed out; Drax is upset and Gamora's just trying to keep people from falling apart en route to Hala.
> 
> ([Lyrics](https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tuabqx4wqojrkm62uaxxifdj56q?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics&u=0#) and [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1S-szvmZReI) by Muse.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: Earth-616 AU, post-GoTG film. Set post-film by several months, after the prologue.

* * *

 

Chapter 4: Our Hopes and Expectations . . . Black Holes and Revelations

* * *

 

As the silence drew out among the five people gathered near the _Milano’s_ gangplank, the Zen-Whoberian soldier got to her feet, sword in hand, once more, then sheathed it after giving Brother Sen Mắt a long, considering look and heaving a weary, troubled sigh. Then she was dusting off and adjusting her form-fitting uniform and long, bi-colored hair.

 

All without taking her eyes from Sen Mắt, who eventually returned his gaze to the _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ —the _Accuser_ also bending her attention on the amnesiac priest she’d taken in. _Twice_ , as it’d turned out.

 

“Was this Ronan truly a person of such terrible deeds, before the loss of his memories?” Sen Mắt asked without much hope. And even the little he had was dashed when the other four people in the immediate vicinity—even the warm, pliant, affectionate man in Sen Mắt’s arms—all said: “Yes.”

 

Shoulders sagging and posture wilting like a depressed sapling, Sen Mắt shook his head. “Then why take me in, after all that I have done? All the evil, all the wrong.” His gaze flicked from the Accuser, to Brother An. “Why befriend me and teach me? Why not kill me when I am so vulnerable before you?” Sen Mắt glanced over at the Zen-Whoberian soldier, but avoided her intent, watchful eyes. “And why . . . why miss me . . . _remember me_ with such poignant fondness and . . . _love_?”

 

This last, Sen Mắt directed at Star-Lord and the Terran looked up into his eyes somberly.

 

“Because _real_ love isn’t about _deserving_ and _earning_ , it’s about wanting and _needing_. It’s about kindred spirits and shared experience and knowing someone so well, that even though you can finish their sentences, you’re still capable of being surprised by them on a near-hourly basis. It’s about the way your heart beats faster just knowing they exist, never mind whether or not they’re existing _near_ you, at the moment. Love is missing someone so bad and dreaming about them so hard, it brings them back from the freakin’ _dead_ , baby, and—” pale lashes shuttered Star-Lord’s eyes for a few moments and he took a deep, shaking breath. “Love is capricious and cruel and doesn’t give a damn who it brings together. Hence you and I. And having spent the past half a year wishing I was dead just so I could be with you and see you again, _I_ kinda don’t _give a damn_ who you are, either, beyond being the man that I love. The things you did, once upon a lifetime, were . . . flat-out _evil_ , baby. I’m not even gonna lie. But _even then_ , the things you did _weren’t_ the _person_ you were. And _are_. You _did_ bad . . . but I don’t think you ever _were_ bad. Just . . . ethically-skewed and obsessed with making someone pay for all the hurt you’d suffered. You were in pain and striking out. And the more you struck out, the worse your pain became, but you couldn’t see that because you were in it. Deep as fuck. So, you _did_ evil. But you weren’t, yourself, an evil _man_. Just an angry one. A hurting and _sad_ one.”

 

Sen Mắt shook his head. “That is no excuse, Star-Lord, for forcing that misery on others who did not deserve it.”

 

“ _Not_ sayin’ it is. But it _is_ a _reason_.” Star-Lord’s wide, obliquely slanted eyes stared up into Sen Mắt’s, still somber and grave . . . the pale lashes that framed those remarkable eyes darkened by unfallen tears. His thumb was still slowly, gently stroking Sen Mắt’s cheek, even as he looked at Accuser Savot and Brother An. “You guys believe that, too, right? Or else you wouldn’t have taken him in and helped him.”

 

Brother An made a pained face, but Accuser Savot merely nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

 

“There _is_ that,” she allowed evenly. “That, and the fact that this copy of Ronan stands a far better chance of not repeating the evils of his genetic predecessors. I, Brother An, and the Order of the Priests of Pama have seen to that. Sen Mắt’s very nature—which, due either to nurture or replicative fading or both, is neither as prone to violence, grandstanding, or obsessions as the other Ronans were.”

 

“See?” Star-Lord said, turning to Sen Mắt with a triumphant smile. “Straight from the horse’s mouth, butch: you’re not gonna repeat the evils of the _fuck_ did you just say, Accuser Savot?” Whipping his gaze back toward the Accuser’s serene face, Peter stared her down hard, jaw dropped in a disbelieving gape. “Whaddaya mean the evils of his _genetic predecessors_? He was related to . . . to you and the previous Supreme Accusers? Whaddaya mean _the other Ronans_?”

 

Accuser Savot tilted her head, brow furrowed. “I mean the previous clones of the original Ronan the Accuser.”

 

Star-Lord’s jaw dropped a little more and Sen Mắt’s eyes grew even wider and rounder than ever.

 

“I . . . I am a _copy_ of . . . of this Ronan? A mere facsimile?” the latter asked, once more hopeful for even the smallest of removes from a past he didn’t want. Even if it maybe came without the Star-Lord resting so easily and forgivingly in his arms.

 

“Not a copy,” Accuser Savot said simply, then went on before Sen Mắt’s heart could sink into his bowels at the burden of once more being the monster everyone except for himself remembered clearly. “You are a _copy_ of a copy of a copy of a copy of copy of a copy of Ronan the Accuser. You are Ronan-7. The original Ronan, Ronan-1 has been dead for _centuries_. Death by . . . misadventure,” she added laconically, but also with suspicious satisfaction. “Of course, power-mad though my greatest pupil was, he was also a genius at strategy and taking the long-view into account. He had several clones kept in reserve even then, should the worst have happened. Which it did, shortly after he was elevated to Supreme Accuser. His paranoia saw him almost weekly updating his psychological profile, memories, and knowledge with the artificial being known as the _Supreme Intelligence_ , which purports to rule the Kree beneficently.” Now, _Accuser Savot_ snorted bitterly, both snort and tone saying without words _exactly_ what she thought of _that_ claim. “By doing so, of course, the Intelligence could keep an eye on Ronan for signs of disloyalty, as well as control the inception of the next Ronan. By the third clone, all that remained of the pupil I had trained was his cruel strength and ruthless genius. Of his compassion, hidden deeply, but there . . . of his sense of justice. Even of his sense of humor and his puckish smile, there remained nothing. The Intelligence had erased the Ronan whose betrayal had nearly destroyed himself and me, both, and replaced him with a conscienceless, soulless automaton whose only motivation, whose very _bread and air_ were vengeance.

 

“You, Sen Mắt, are the sixth clone to bear Ronan’s genetic code, faded and drifted though it was and has. The latest in a line of optimized and genetically tweaked super-men. Minus, of course, the memories the Intelligence would have had imprinted on you, like an outdated operating system onto the latest hardware.” Accuser Savot spread her arms as if to say: _And that is all I know_ , the hand with the Universal Weapon holding the massive hammer easily, loosely.

 

“So,” Star-Lord began slowly, his brows drawn together. In the last of a burnt, blood-orange sunset, Sen Mắt found him fiercely beautiful, like a sun on the brink of going nova. “So, the only way my lover gets his memories back is through some big, evil, alien computer that’s been fucking with Kree destiny for hundreds of years?”

 

“Millions, actually,” Accuser Savot corrected almost blithely, but for the cold flash of anger in her pale eyes. “ _Millions_ of years, Star-Lord, since the program known as the Supreme Intelligence began _fucking with Kree destiny_ , as you put it, and rather poetically. And as far as I know, there are copies of Ronan’s personality profile in many locations where his clones are stored. But they are not _true_ copies of the original Ronan. Only the tampered-with versions that the Intelligence deemed worthwhile and . . . properly rage-filled and obsessed. I have no idea if the original Ronan’s profile exists anywhere off Hala, and outside the Intelligence’s infinite memory. It certainly _does not_ on Terra.”

 

Sen Mắt and Star-Lord shared a glance, equally gobstruck and overwhelmed.

 

“But if it exists _anywhere_ , that place is gonna be Hala,” Star-Lord murmured, his flickering eyes alight with empathy and that seemingly bottomless affection as they studied Sen Mắt’s face.

 

“Yes.” Accuser Savot nodded again. “Just as Ronan-1’s original genetic material is, so his original memories and personality traits are . . . _at a premium_ , as Terrans say.”

 

“Gotcha. _Soooo_ . . . how many generations of clones _are_ there of Ronan, Accuser Savot?” Star-Lord asked intently, not tearing his gaze from Sen Mắt’s. The Kree priest likewise didn’t look away. "Is the sixth generation the last?"

 

“Yes, and . . . on how many planets are my . . . fellow clones located, besides Terra?” Sen Mắt asked quietly. Accuser Savot sighed, setting the butt of her Weapon on the cobblestones and then leaning on the business end rather heavily . . . wearily.

 

“I could make an uneducated guess. My estimate would be dozens of clones on dozens of planets in dozens of systems spread throughout the galaxy. Though I tend to guess on the conservative side in this, as in all things. I may be erring on the side of fewer than there may actually be. As to how many _generations_ . . . I know of six deaths in the line of Ronan. The most recent two I know of only secondhand . . . through rumor. Death by Infinity Stone, for Ronan-6. And . . . the Ronan before that, Ronan-5, died rather mysteriously while aboard the _Dark Aster_ , and _en route_ from Sanctuary to Hala. I have only suppositions of what may have precipitated _that_ clone’s death.”

 

“Perhaps I may be able to shed some light on those rumors,” the Zen-Whoberian warrior said suddenly, but barely loud enough to be heard, crossing her arms over her chest to hide a shudder none of them missed. “There was a rumor that Thanos had had Ronan dispatched after Ronan . . . displeased him in some manner. Nebula claimed to be the one who’d done the dispatching. But then . . . a few weeks before Peter found the Power Stone, Ronan was once more aboard the _Dark Aster_. Fresh from Hala and with more zeal than ever to find the Stone and thus see Xandar destroyed in return. Even Nebula couldn’t explain his reappearance. And Thanos _declined_ to explain it, not that any of us dared ask. But at last, it makes sense. The Ronan who returned to Sanctuary aboard the _Dark Aster_ was a clone. As was the Ronan before that.”

 

Shaking her head as she stared at Sen Mắt with less anger and more pity, now, she tossed her ebony-and-scarlet hair and pursed her lips. “I have no doubt that if anyone outside of the Kree Empire knew Ronan was a clone, it was Thanos. And he grew tired of the then current incarnation and decided to . . . scrap him and start over with whatever the Supreme Intelligence cooked up.”

 

“Sounds like something that _El Jeffe_ , the Asshole Supreme-o would do,” Star-Lord muttered, tucking his head back under Sen Mắt’s once more. “ _Jesus_. Well, whichever generation or clone you are—”

 

“Seventh generation Ronan, sixth generation clone,” Accuser Savot, Brother An, and the Zen-Whoberian all said at once, and Star-Lord snorted again.

 

“Yeah, thanks. Well, _whichever_ , I don’t care. You’re _my Ronan_. You may not have your memories, but you have your _you_. You’re more like the boy who helped his mother bake cannaberry tarts when he was nine than even the original Ronan would’ve been, by the time he reached adulthood,” he said softly, sadly. “Those memories and all the facts-y stuff I can fill you in on. I could tell you more about Ronan and who he was than any computer. You know . . . _if you want_.”

 

Star-Lord was quick to say that last as Sen Mắt tensed against him, his voice almost meek with his hopes and expectations . . . and fears.

 

“That was why I sent to the Matriarch on Hala for instruction,” Accuser Savot said heavily. “It is not _my_ place, nor yours, Star-Lord, to decide whether or not Ronan’s memories should be . . . restored to Sen Mắt. If such _was_ up to me, I would have him stay as he is, for there is no dishonor in innocence and purity. And there is strength in simplicity and an open heart.”

 

“Ronan hasn’t been any of those things since he was ten years old,” Star-Lord protested, his arms tightening around Sen Mắt’s waist once more. “Nonetheless, Ronan—Sen Mắt _deserves_ to know who he was . . . even if that person wasn’t always pure and open-hearted. The person Ronan was doesn’t deserve to be forgotten and cast off onto the trash-heap of galactic-fucking-history!”

 

“But whatever that person may or may not deserve, he _is_ _dead_ ,” the Zen-Whoberian said gently, her eyes softer than they had been, but otherwise unreadable, too. “Whether for six months or six centuries, _Ronan the Accuser_ is dead. The man you’re holding onto so tight—and the Guardians _will_ be having words, as a group and in _private_ , about this . . . _connection_ you’ve been keeping from us—is someone else, entirely. An innocent man who _doesn’t_ deserve the memories of a genocidal fanatic rattling around his mind, heart, or soul. That would be neither fair nor just. Nor _kind_. And you know it.”

 

Star-Lord huffed out a hot, fast breath. “Maybe not. But Ro— _Sen M_ _ắ_ _t deserves_ to know where he came from. He deserves the good memories—and they _do_ exist—of his mom . . . or I guess the woman who contributed to half his genetic code. He needs to have the memories of his father, if only to show him by contrast how good a man he can be and is. Those were the things that made him _who_ he was. Made him the man I _love_.”

 

“And yet . . . perhaps I do not want those memories. Good or bad. Nor the me who comes with them,” Sen Mắt said in a low voice, only for Star-Lord to look up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Sen Mắt sighed, taking some moments to gather himself and clarify what he felt, finally settling on: “If someone offered you the option to have a whole other set of memories of a person you had no interest in knowing or being—a person who was, _at best_ , a vengeance-obsessed maniac—imparted to you forever, would _you_ want them?”

 

Star-Lord stammered and temporized, his face slowly flushing an embarrassed crimson. Sen Mắt tried to smile and reached up to brush his large fingers down the soft, downy curve of Star-Lord’s heated cheek. “You are _beautiful_ , Star-Lord. Lovely beyond my previous understanding of the word. And even beyond that beauty, my heart is both wounded and made whole by your very presence—by even the mere _knowledge_ of you. I would give _almost_ anything to make you mine. To have you look at me—at _Sen M_ _ắ_ _t_ —the way you look at the man you are waiting for to become your Ronan. But I cannot give up my very _self_. Not for anyone . . . even _you_. I _cannot_ risk losing myself in the urges and obsessions of a man who _died in the pursuit_ of genocide and vengeance and destruction. I cannot . . . I cannot allow the Ronan the Accuser _you knew_ to _exist_ again. Perhaps not even in memorial. The risk of subversion is too great and I fear . . . I fear I shall be lost, should I make an attempt at reconciling the natures of two such disparate men in a single mind and body. I fear I shall not survive the experience.”

 

Those tawny-gold eyes searched Sen Mắt’s before glancing away. “Well. Can’t really argue with _that_ , can I?” Star-Lord asked almost flippantly, and Sen Mắt had the feeling that despite his words, the Terran was _far_ from done advocating for the return of Ronan’s memories, either the original set or the tampered-with set stored with the clone bodies that waited for imprinting.

 

Which only brought to Sen Mắt’s still-numb, still-stunned mind the fact that somewhere on Terra was a copy of Ronan's profile as manipulated by an ancient, evil, plotting, interfering, artificial intelligence.

 

Shaking his head yet again, Sen Mắt tilted Star-Lord’s face up toward his own once more, but was unable to read the look in those flickering, flashing eyes. Other than determination. The determination—for _something_ , though what, exactly, Sen Mắt couldn’t divine—was as plain as the nose on Star-Lord’s face, as Brother An might have said.

 

Sen Mắt bit his lip and stared into the sunset’s last gasp, which limned in blood-light the distant, tree-lined horizon, before he spoke again. And the words tasted bitter on his tongue, indeed: like ashes and rue. “If you wish nothing further to do with the memory-less clone of the man you _truly_ love, Star-Lord, I understand. And I will bear you no ill will.”

 

Star-Lord’s changeable eyes seemed to snap and crackle with sudden anger. “Well, don’t that just make _you_ all kindsa awesome?” he demanded hotly, then bobbed up to capture Sen Mắt’s lips and his gasp of surprise in a bruising, demanding kiss that was over before Sen Mắt could even respond properly. Sen Mắt gazed down into Star-Lord’s eyes as the Terran panted and licked his own kiss-swollen lips, as if both savoring Sen Mắt’s taste on them and their swollen, surely sensitive state. “You’re _not_ gettin’ rid of me _that_ easy, _Little Brother Sen M_ _ắ_ _t_. You may not be the man you were six months ago, or even a fortnight ago, but you’re still the man I _love_. I look at you, and I see the eyes and face that I’ve been missing and wanting and _needing_. I see the heart and soul that’ve been the other half of _mine_ since we held that damn Stone together. I see someone I don’t know _yet_ , and maybe even _don’t_ love . . . _yet_. But I know that he _is_ someone I could love and _would_ _love_ if given half a chance. So, no.” Another flicker-flash in those mesmerizing eyes. “There’ll be none of that self-sacrificing, self-martyring bullshit you religious-types are so good at. And if you decide to take the martyr’s way out, anyway, I _will_ bear you ill will, and I’ll haunt you like a fuckin’ _ghost_ till your next dying day and _beyond_. You will _never_ see the end of me, Sen Mắt. Never.”

 

“But I am going to Hala,” Sen Mắt said, seemingly apropos of nothing, and Star-Lord’s grin was sharp and wry.

 

“What a coincidence: So’m I.”

 

“I do not know for how long the Matriarch will wish to examine me. Or what her decision regarding me will be.” Sen Mắt took a deep, shuddering breath. “By this time next year, you may be lamenting the presence of an eighth generation version of the galactic menace known as Ronan, and _I_ may be so much rot in the earth as a precaution.”

 

“The Matriarch would not have an innocent killed. Not even one with the potential to be Ronan,” Accuser Savot said certainly, firmly, and Star-Lord glanced at her.

 

“And she’d damn well better not try to, _now_ ,” he said in low, dangerous tones. Accuser Savot’s brows quirked up in challenge and amusement, but Star-Lord was already gazing up at Sen Mắt once more, the fire in his eyes replaced by warmth and worry. “I’ll wait for you. Even if I gotta to do it outside of Kree space, I’ll wait. But I’m pretty sure I’m gonna do my _damnedest_ to stick by your side come Hell or high water.”

 

“A Terran? On Hala?” Sen Mắt whispered shakily. “I cannot guarantee your safety at all, Star-Lord, but especially not on the Kree homeworld. I can only fight off so many before being overwhelmed. If the consensus was to end you . . . there would be nothing I could do to prevent that.”

 

“Hey, I’m not _entirely_ helpless. I’ve got some tricks even the baddest-ass Kree wouldn’t see comin’ till it was too late,” Star-Lord said arrogantly and Sen Mắt smiled, his sighing, enamored heart beating from its new home in his throat. But something about that smile made the Terran blink and that arrogant look fade to be replaced by an almost confused and tentative smile of his own. “The last thing I want you to do is risk your life for mine. I lost ya once, Turd-Blossom . . . dunno that I could live through it a second time.”

 

 _Turd-Blossom?_ Sen Mắt blinked, then shook his head once to clear it of extraneous asides. “Then . . . if you would wait for me to return to you . . . do so away from Hala.”

 

Star-Lord swallowed and heaved another sigh. “We’ll talk about it more once we’re on the road, ‘kay?”

 

It was a non-answer, at best, and Sen Mắt found it unacceptable. He opened his mouth to say just that, despite the knowing narrowing of Star-Lord’s golden eyes, but Accuser Savot recalled him to the present by speaking of practicalities, as was her way.

 

“A solid suggestion, Star-Lord,” she said dryly. “It is time and past for us to be on our way. Soonest begun is half-done, as Terrans like to say.”

 

Star-Lord sniffed and tucked his head under Sen Mắt’s chin again and Sen Mắt simply sat there for a minute, arms around the Terran, whose face was pressed against Sen Mắt’s throat. Soft, steady, humid breaths tickled Sen Mắt’s ruddy, markedly-below-atmospheric-temperature skin. Star-Lord’s gentle hand still cupped Sen Mắt’s once again tear-wet face as Sen Mắt stared into the seemingly growing gulf between everything he’d thought he’d known about himself . . . and everything that was likely to be the truth.

 

“It . . . it has all been a lie, Star-Lord,” he murmured, his deep, even voice cracking on the word _lie_. Star-Lord made a pained, commiserating sound and sat up, shifting so that he was cupping Sen Mắt’s rapidly paling face in both hands, his thumbs stroking high cheekbones and swiping away nearly invisible, falling tears. Sen Mắt was so lost in that gulf, and the swirling void at the heart of it, that he barely noticed. “ _Everything_ I know, everything I _thought_. Everything I _am_. It . . . _I_ am a lie. A naive fever-dream created by conspiracy and pity.”

 

“No, you’re not, Ro—um, _Sen M_ _ắ_ _t_ ,” Star-Lord corrected when the other man flinched and closed his eyes as if sight pained him. Perhaps it did. Something surely was . . . perhaps Sen Mắt would simply never open his eyes again. . . .

 

But Star-Lord made that soft sound again and kissed him tenderly, his lips warm and sweet and so achingly _right_ that the courage of Sen Mắt’s convictions was quickly lost, and before too long, he found himself sighing at the end of the kiss and blinking down into those tawny-gold eyes. They were simply a pale, lucent shade of grey-yellow in the purple twilight that colored the air around them. And they were once more wide with concern and sympathy.

 

No . . . _empathy_. Whoever else this Star-Lord was, he was a man who understood what it was to believe _one_ thing about oneself for all one’s life, and then find out that some _other_ thing, perhaps not a _good_ thing, was the actual truth.

 

“You may not have your memories. _Yet_. And we may not know if you’ll ever be allowed to get them. Or why you’re not, uh, blue, like you used to be—”

 

“I . . . was not always pink-skinned?” Sen Mắt asked, blinking, and Star-Lord smiled that wide, bright smile that did _things_ to Sen Mắt’s entire body, from brain to blood to balls.

 

“Not always, nah. Though I gotta say . . . pink looks good on ya, babe. But then,” that smile became a smug smirk. “There’s precious little that _wouldn’t_. And you kinda blend in better on Terra not being the color of a radioactive isotope _as well as_ nearly eight feet tall, anyway.”

 

Sen Mắt cracked a small, unwilling smile. One that made Star-Lord sigh and steal another kiss, this one far less about comfort and more about a strange and compelling possessiveness. About _having_ what he had already claimed.

 

“Sen Mắt, Ronan-7, whatever you wanna call yourself, now, you’re still _mine_. And _I’m_ still _yours_. I know this big, sexy body better than my own—every curve and angle, every dip and swell, every taste of every part of you.” Star-Lord leaned their foreheads together again. “You’re _my_ Ronan, no matter what you call yourself and what you do or don’t remember.”

 

“And . . . and if I continue not to _wish_ to recall the man you claim to love so? Or am not _allowed_ to recall the man you love, after all? Will you _still_ want this body and the man inhabiting it, then?”

 

Seeming to ignore the quaver and doubt in Sen Mắt’s voice, Star-Lord made a happy, comfortable sound. “All you need to recall—or _rediscover_ —is how to love _my_ fine ass, and I’ll be satisfied. The rest . . . the rest’ll be icing.”

 

Frowning, Sen Mắt found himself holding Star-Lord closer, running a hand through that fine, slightly curling at the ends, russet hair. Star-Lord made a rather discontented noise when Sen Mắt accidentally brushed the goose-egg at the back of his skull. In apology, Sen Mắt absently kissed the crown of Star-Lord’s head. “ _The rest_ , as you so call it, is two strangers who _may_ have known each other once, having to learn each other all over again.”

 

Star-Lord snorted. “’S called dating, butch. Or courtin’. You and I never really got to do that, unless you count that one time we went to Xandar and held hands around an Infinity Stone.”

 

“Yes . . . that went rather well, did it not?” Sen Mắt’s sarcasm, though unusual for him, was dry and on-point. Star-Lord chuckled.

 

“Yeah, well, as first dates go, that one kinda left a lot to be desired. But hey—it wasn’t the end of the world.”

 

Sen Mắt quirked an eyebrow. “Not for lack of trying.”

 

“Now you’re just splittin’ hairs.” Star-Lord grinned winningly. “Besides, it’s like ya said, gorgeous: You’re _not_ Ronan. At least not the world-destroying bits of him. Hell, I don’t even know who you _are_ , really. Other than a priest with a _body_ I’d like to ride into the sunset, and a fucking _amazing_ kisser.”

 

“You admit you do not know me, and yet you suggest we try to kindle a courtship?” This time, Sen Mắt snorted, though he was blushing. “You do not even know who I am, now, and have nothing but hopes and expectations about the man you long for me to become once more. And I will surely disappoint in many ways, even if I achieve total recall. And as for me . . . I . . . have no memory of you that isn’t tangled about with my own hopes and expectations, as well. For all I know, you are a _terrible_ person, Star-Lord. Not that, it would seem, that you could be any worse than the man _I_ was slated to be.”

 

Star-Lord chuckled once more. “First off, that’s a lotta fancy-talk for sayin’ you already care about me enough to not want to disappoint me _and_ that you’re scared I’m not gonna love the person you are. Second . . . _Star-Lord’s_ my _title_.” At this, the Zen-Whoberian woman, who’d moved to stand back on the gangplank at the foot, between Sen Mắt and Star-Lord, and Accuser Savot and Brother An, snorted. Star-Lord huffed, but otherwise ignored her. “But my _name_ is Peter. Peter Jason Quill, and . . . _fuck_ , Sen Mắt, honey, why is there a _rat_ sleeping in your shirt pocket?”

 

#

 

To give Rocket more credit than perhaps the pint-sized butt-munch deserved, he only _drew_ the massive shatter-bomb launcher he’d been cleaning, and aimed it at Brother Sen Mắt and Accuser Savot when Peter lead the pair to the common area/dining room/rec area, followed by Gamora.

 

He did _not_ fire it.

 

Drax merely gaped and Groot’s big, dark eyes widened and he exhaled a breathless: “We are _Groot_ ,” in distinctly _oh-my_ -ish tones.

 

“Put it _down_ , dumbass, before you blow us all to Hell!” Peter all but screeched, making a dive-and-grab for raccoon and gun. Rocket bared his teeth and dodged, his aim never deflecting from Sen Mắt or Accuser Savot.

 

“I will _not_! Have ya lost your _mind_ , Quill?!” he demanded as Peter chased him around the _Milano’s_ largest room, leaping over the couches and chairs, and the communal table. How such a small person hefted, and was so speedy and agile while carrying such a large gun, was beyond Peter. How said person managed to never lose sight of the two Kree—one of whom looked fascinated and the other of whom looked amused—or his bead on them, was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. “That’s an _Accuser_ , ya moron! For crap’s sake! Not to mention the fact that the bumpkin hidin’ behind her skirts happens to look and smell almost _exactly_ like a genocidal whack-job, who shall remain _nameless_ , but apparently not _dead_!”

 

Finally cornering Rocket between an Saeklian leather armchair he’d _liberated_ from Kragelin several years back, and a wall, Peter paused, blinking in surprise. Then he put himself firmly between Rocket and Sen Mắt. “Wait a minute—you can _smell_ Sen Mắt?”

 

Now, Rocket was the one to blink, then re-aim the launcher as if he was willing to shatter-bomb the two Kree through Peter, if necessary. “I don’t smell no lotuses or eyeballs, Quill, just Kree-stink, like candy and hot metal. Plus chlorophyll, and—huh.” Suddenly lowering the launcher, a bit, Rocket sniffed the air deep and loud. Then he was nudging Peter out of the way with the launcher. Peter, _not_ interested in being shatter-bombed even accidentally, was quick to dance away from the muzzle of the ridiculous thing.

 

Rocket meanwhile, was striding up to the two Kree, neither of whom raised their weapons, though they were still holding them, as well as their hemp carryalls. Accuser Savot still seemed amused and Sen Mắt was staring at Rocket with both glee and obvious fascination.

 

“You are a Halfworlder, are you not?” Sen Mắt asked in a breathless voice of his own, low and so perfectly modulated, Peter shivered and moaned under his breath, which only Gamora and Groot seemed to notice.

 

“We are Groot?” the latter whispered in a tiny voice. Peter shrugged haplessly.

 

“Yeah, _real_ bad, buddy,” he replied just as quietly. “I’m a goner.”

 

“We are Groot,” Groot agreed, reluctantly turning his gaze back to the small drama mere yards away.

 

“. . . a Halfworlder, alright. And what’re you? Shapeshifter, or clone?” Rocket was asking suspiciously, launcher still lowered, but also still drawn.

 

“Clone,” Sen Mắt answered with a sanguineness Peter could only envy. He sensed just how difficult such sangfroid was for the young priest. “Sixth generation, apparently.”

 

“Eh.” And with that, Rocket sniffed and let the launcher sag till it was pointed at the floor. He even flicked what Peter hoped was the safety just as Drax stood stiffly and stalked out of the room, his bare, broad shoulders tight and tense, his jaw set. Gamora watched him go with a look of concern and yearning that quickly smoothed over. “Well, I guess that’s better than a shapeshifter. Can’t trust someone what ain’t got no physical limitations, ya know.”

 

“Hmm,” Sen Mắt said, neither agreeing or disagreeing as he snuck fascinated glances at Rocket between glancing at Accuser Savot for social cues. But the Accuser was already moving deeper into the rec area, toward Groot, her own eyes wide with fascination, too. She absently, but reverently laid her Universal Weapon on the table.

 

“Oh, my . . . you are a _Groot_ , are you not?” she asked in a gentle, but awed voice. Groot swayed and nodded, his dark eyes sparkling.

 

“We _are_ Groot!” he exclaimed, and Accuser Savot smiled brightly, as if she’d just gotten John Stamos’s autograph. The expression was somewhat alarming on her austere, stoic features. Peter and Gamora exchanged a startled glance.

 

Meanwhile, Sen Mắt had knelt and was letting Rocket poke his face with one tiny finger and his shoulder with the muzzle of the launcher.

 

“So, ya really _are_ a clone of ol’ crazy-britches, huh?”

 

“I am actually a clone of a clone, and for several generations back, of ol' crazy-britches.”

 

“Huh. How come ya pink?” Rocket tilted his head curiously. “Replicative fading?”

 

“That _is_ the most likely cause, yes.”

 

“Yeah. Eugenics is a bitch. Well . . . but it coulda been worse. _Coulda_ been _Xandarian_ -pink.” Rocket shuddered dramatically, tossing the launcher at the far couch. Peter squawked, diving for cover behind the nearer couch, just in case the safety _wasn’t_ on. But the launcher landed without incident and everyone in the room was staring at Peter as if he’d gone insane.

 

“Actually I rather like Xandarian pink,” Sen Mắt cheerfully said into the silence. “I find it to be a very optimistic color. Though there is very little that does not clash with such a vibrant shade.”

 

“Oh, amen to that, sister,” Rocket snarked, rolling his beady eyes. Then he glanced at Peter again. “Quill, you’re probably gettin’ an S.T.I. just from layin’ on that floor, ya know.”

 

Clearing his throat, Peter stood up casually, dusting off his clothes and leaning against a support with a charming grin. Only he misjudged the distance and direction, toppling over on his ass.

 

The looks that called him _crazy_ returned. Except for Gamora’s face: her expression was back to that concerned-yearning one and she muttered something about going to take a nap—Gamora _never_ took naps—before hurrying off toward crew quarters.

 

“ _Anyways_.” Rocket rolled his eyes as Peter got to his feet, aided by a suddenly-there Sen Mắt. And for a minute or so, after he’d pulled Peter up and against him—well, to be honest, Peter was the one who followed through with the pulling till he was pressed against Sen Mắt’s tall, muscular, hard body—he stared down into Peter’s eyes, his own lotus-colored ones wondering and every bit as yearning as Gamora’s had been when they’d followed Drax out of the rec room.

 

Peter licked his lips and noted that Sen Mắt’s gaze caught and followed the motion before flicking back up to Peter’s eyes.

 

“Ugh. So _that’s_ how it is, eh, Quill? Clone?”

 

Taking a brief moment to glare at Rocket, Peter replied loftily. “His name's _Sen Mắt_ , Rocket. And, yeah: that’s _exactly_ how it is. How it’s _been_ since Ronan and I held the Power Stone.”

 

“Ha! I knew it! I _knew_ that Stone did somethin’ to ya brain! Called it, Groot! Ya owe me half your take from this job!” Rocket crowed, laughing. Groot, however, merely sighed, and continued to let Accuser Savot examine his branches and the few visible roots that poked and humped above the surface of the soil in his pot.

 

“We are Groot,” he sighed grumpily, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at Rocket, who continued to laugh. Peter and Sen Mắt shared a glance, and a chuckle that quickly turned into light, fast, chuffs of air.

 

“I really wanna kiss you again, Sen Mắt,” Peter murmured, standing up on his toes, which still didn’t quite put him kissing-close to Sen Mắt’s face. The priest made a frustrated noise and leaned down, till his forehead was touching Peter’s. “Like, a _lot_.”

 

“And I you, Peter Quill.”

 

Before either man could countenance it, they were kissing lightly, teasingly, almost hesitantly. As if they expected to be forced apart at any second. But when that didn’t happen, the kiss deepened, lengthened, and intensified. Till Peter’s arms were wrapped around Sen Mắt’s neck and Sen Mắt had one arm around Peter’s waist (the other was between them, Sen Mắt’s hand cupped protectively over the still-sleeping tree-mouse in his pocket).

 

Till Peter freed one arm to reach around and grab Sen Mắt’s hand and push it down from the small of his back, to his left ass-cheek. Sen Mắt made a soft, possessive, sweetly hungry sound that Peter could taste on his tongue like the memory of dark chocolate truffles, then squeezed tentatively . . . then a _lot less_ tentatively, till Peter was moaning into the kiss and pushing his hips forward, feeling Sen Mắt’s burgeoning hard-on not too far above his own.

 

Till Groot said: “We are _Groot_!” in tones of surprise, dismay, and discomfort.

 

Till Rocket started making gagging noises and told them to get a room.

 

Till Peter, himself, was ready to follow that sound advice.

 

“Jesus, Ro— _Sen M_ _ắ_ _t_ ,” Peter breathed, hard and fast—practically panting as Sen Mắt laid gentle kisses from Peter’s temple to his jaw, the hand on Peter’s ass still squeezing for all it was worth . . . and _exactly_ the way Peter liked. “I want you inside me so deep, I can feel your cock behind my _lungs_. I want you fucking me so sweet and slow, deep and _good,_ that I come and come till it _hurts_. Till I pass out”

 

When Sen Mắt looked at him with eyes that were equally lusting but confused, Peter smirked. “You _do_ know what fucking is, right, Not-So-Little Brother Sen Mắt?” He ground slow and dirty against the hardness pressed, now, against his stomach.

 

Sen Mắt’s thick brows—somehow, they and the hair on Sen Mắt’s head didn’t look weird. Neither did the pink skin. It somehow seemed . . . fitting, for this man who was Ronan, but not _quite_ —lifted fractionally.

 

“Yes, Peter Quill, I _do_ know what _fucking_ is. It is slang for the act of copulation.” Sen Mắt huffed. “ _Th_ _ầ_ _y Tu_ —er, _Accuser Savot_ explained the concept to me several weeks ago.”

 

“Ah, well, then,” Peter said, more amused than even just a few moments ago. Sen Mắt drew his dignity up around him like a cape, the hand still on Peter’s ass gentling its grasp, but not letting go. Not even close. “So, what’s givin’ ya that confused look?”

 

Now, those formidable black brows furrowed. “If you and I were to copulate—to _fuck_ ,” Sen Mắt amended in a low purr when Peter made a face. “If we were to do that, then where, exactly, would you be coming _to_ during such an act? Would . . . is there typically travel involved in copulation between Terrans?”

 

Peter blinked, his expression gone totally blank for long moments. Then he was casting a waspish look at Accuser Savot, who was still examining a patient and gracious Groot, while Rocket drifted over to them, both bemused by and suspicious of this curious Kree practically cooing over his best friend.

 

“So . . . I’m guessing she left a few things out when she explained how sex works,” Peter said delicately. Sen Mắt looked puzzled, but curious.

 

“Such as?” he asked innocently, and without either guile or pretense. Peter smirked again and bounced up to steal another kiss that was practically all tongue: sensuous, shameless, and slick.

 

“I’d be glad to give you a private demonstration in my quarters, Brother Sen Mắt . . . unless . . . unless you’re the kinda priest that _isn’t_ allowed to fuck. . . ?”

 

Now, Sen Mắt was the one to look amused. “I have taken no vow of chastity or celibacy. Neither has any other member of my order. That is not a requirement to be a Priest of Pama.”

 

“But you’ve never taken advantage of not having made those vows, I’m guessin’.”

 

“I have not. The right opportunity has not presented itself. Nor has . . . the right person.” Sen Mắt crooked a small smile down at Peter. “Rather, they _had not_ , until very recently.”

 

“Meaning?” Peter teased, just because he could and to make certain they were both on the same page. Sen Mắt leaned in and kissed the bridge of Peter’s nose tenderly.

 

“Meaning that I would _very_ much like for you to teach me all about cop— _fucking_ , and that I will do my best to please you and retain _everything_ you will teach me.”

 

Peter’s eyes widened and his smirk turned into a small, but smitten smile. “Mmm . . . well, then . . . what’re we still doin’ out _here_ with our clothes still _on_?” He let go of Sen Mắt’s neck to take his hand—the one that’d been on Peter’s ass—and drag him out of the rec room.

 

Neither man noticed Accuser Savot, Rocket, and Groot exchange a glance and shudders all around.

 

“We are _Grooooot_ ,” was muttered with some plaintiveness, followed by another shudder and a sigh. Rocket shrugged and made a face.

 

“You an’ me, both, pal. That’s a mental snapshot that’ll linger.”

 

Accuser Savot snorted. “Quite,” she said in tacit agreement with both Guardians . . . then went back to examining Groot’s bark in-depth.

 

Rocket, meanwhile, heaved a put-upon sigh of his own. _Someone_ had to get them all off this bass-ackward blue rock before the Avengers twigged to their presence and, apparently, it wasn’t gonna be _any_ of the bald-bodies who _normally_ kept them in the air.

 

Muttering and cursing to himself, Rocket made his way to the cockpit, avoiding even _looking_ down the brief corridor leading to the crew-quarters, fingers plugged determinedly in his furry ears. The pictures his poor, but very visual brain came up with were enough without adding actual surround-sound to it, no matter how muffled by metal-alloy.

 

Even when, an hour later, they’d safely and invisibly reached the edges of Terran space, Rocket still sat in the captain’s chair, grousing and gnawing at his dark nails. He was too weirded-out and _grossed_ -out to consider going back to his and Groot's not-nearly-sound-proof-enough quarters, between Quill’s and Drax’s.

 

“Not enough units in the whole fuckin’ _galaxy_ to make bravin’ _that_ shitshow a worthwhile prospect,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Then, just because sound traveled too damn well on Quill’s stupid ship, sometimes, he turned the _Awesome Mix, Vol. 2_ on . . . and decidedly _up_.

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Shall I keep going? Lemme know!
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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